Copper Pot Dye sits in a vial the color of a warm sunrise inside a kettle, a burnished copper that seems to breathe as you tilt it toward the light. The liquid has the grain of hammered metal, a subtle texture you can feel on the fingertips—the tiny hills and indentations of a pot that saw many meals. In the label’s faded gold, a pot and a curling steam motif hints at its origin: an artisan's story pressed into a shade that remembers heat. People speak of it like a memory braided into cloth. It’s said to come from markets where copper pots carried more than soup—reliable vessels that endured long voyages and even longer nights. Those who keep the pot warm with tea and stories sometimes trace the dye’s lineage back to a potter who traded with smiths and skalds, and who found in the metal a color that wouldn’t fade at dusk. So the dye is less a color and more a bookmark for a recipe of life: for cooks who patch armor with a patina of trust, for smiths who show their craft in every rivet and seam. In gameplay terms, Copper Pot Dye does what colors do: it caresses armor, shaping a silhouette that blends with leather, brass buckles, and the dull glow of lamps in a tavern hall. A warrior dyeing their coat with it aligns with a tale of forged resilience—like a pot lost and found again, polished until it gleams at a festival. It’s versatile enough to wear across multiple sets—one day a brigandine, the next a simple tunic—catching the light as you move, so that every swing or stride seems tempered by copper heat. It’s popular among crafters and caravan guards who want a practical sheen that doesn’t scream ostentation, but tells a story of shared kitchens and shared routes. Market chatter keeps pace with its popularity. At Saddlebag Exchange, an offbeat stall tucked between salt-rimmed barrels and crate-labeled spices, the color’s value bobs with demand and season. I’ve watched vendors tag Copper Pot Dye in silver along with a few coins, then watch a buyer barter back with a grin. The going rate drifts—sometimes a breeze of silver, sometimes a more generous purse of gold—depending on the week and gossip in the lanes. A few merchants bundle it with other earthy tones and call it a bargain for those who want to ride the line between utility and memory, a copper-bright reminder of meals shared on long journeys. To wear Copper Pot Dye is to wear a story you can carry. When the dye dries, a faint edge catches the eye, like a seam along a coastline. Friends notice, and strangers ask where the color came from; in those moments the dye becomes a prompt to tell a tale of routes, of kitchens, of night markets that fed bodies under constellations. And somewhere, the pot's alchemy whispers back, rewarding patience with a hue that ages into legend as surely as coin spent.