Lipstick Dye

Lipstick Dye sits in a slender glass vial, the color of crushed rose petals, a glaze of lacquer that catches the light as if dawn itself were trapped inside. The stopper is pale pink wax, stamped with a tiny kiss mark that glints when the sun hits it. The liquid shimmers with a velvet depth; tilt the bottle and it flows like warmed lacquer, not water. On skin, it feels smooth, almost like balm, leaving a warm, lasting gloss that dries to a pearly finish. On fabric and plate-mail, it settles into the weave and the metal, turning everything it touches to a glassy, lipstick-bright sheen. Lore: The dye's origin is whispered in back rooms and tailor's shops—an artist of the Court of Virmire, who swore to color the world with the memory of a last kiss. They say the recipe blends crushed pomegranate husks, beetle carapace, and a sigh of rose oil, a union of craft and longing. It is named Lipstick Dye because it clings to surfaces the way a lover's lipstick clings to a glass, leaving a telltale, intimate glow that lingers after the moment passes. In the world, the dye isn't just vanity; it is a signal in the field: a lieutenant's scarf, a scout's cloak, a healer's tabard all bloom in a shared color that says, "We belonged to the same night." Players use Lipstick Dye to tell a personal story through gear. It can crown a costume for a festival, turning a simple leather vest into a rose-salted banner, or shade a helm with a subtle, flattering glare that makes a hero seem almost alive. Because the dye glazes both cloth and metal, it helps unite an ensemble: a crimson hood, a lacquered shield, boots that catch the edge of the light—suddenly the wanderer feels like a walking memory. It also slots into the larger economy of the world, where traders barter stories as well as coin. A market day favorite, Lipstick Dye travels along the rutted roads in crates and chests, carried by caravans that know the names of buyers by heart. In the saddlebag stalls of the Saddlebag Exchange, it sits among other cosmetics and rare colorants, priced to reflect demand and the whims of fashion. On a bright morning, I heard a trader quote two gold and fifty silver to a would-be patron who wanted something that would turn a night watch into a moment of theater. The buyer nodded, pocketing the change, imagining a reunion in a tavern where friends wear the same shade to signal their shared vow. And when the dye is applied, even the plainest tunic seems to whisper a story—the kind of tale you wear on your skin as you walk a crowded square, the echo of a kiss across a table between strangers who become allies. That is Lipstick Dye: more than pigment, a memory pressed into glass, ready to melt into any surface and make a moment last a little longer. Some say the lipstick never fades completely, just shifts with memory.