Wrath Dye

Wrath Dye sits in a small glass vial, the liquid inside the color of a sunset trapped behind tempered glass—deep crimson that shivers at the edge of black, like embers caught in a censer. The hue has a smoky depth, a sheen that shifts with the light, as if a spark from a siege-fire had seeped into the bottle and refused to burn away. When you tilt it, the pigment fans out in a fine, almost powdery ribbon, then settles into a glossy glaze that clings to the surface of leather and cloth with a stubborn, almost reverent patience. There’s a texture to Wrath Dye as well—a whisper of grit within the liquid, tiny coppery specks that catch in the lamplight and remind you that it’s not merely color, but a story pressed into a bottle. lore-wise, the name itself carries a memory: a dye born from old banners stained by the fury of battle, a pigment said to be distilled from the heated ash of ruined flags and tempered with the breath of the smiths who refused to yield. People who keep old guild chronicles swear it captures not just color but the very mood of a town under siege, the way courage might glow as the night tightens around a wall. In the workshop, Wrath Dye does more than color. A tailor glides the wand-like brush along a cuirass’s edge, and the red blooms with a quiet aggression that feels almost ceremonial. When applied to cloth, it lends the fabric a velvety depth, as if the thread itself remembers the heat of a forge. On leather, the dye sinks in with a calm, lacquered finish that strengthens the line of a belt or the seam of a bracer, giving armor a look that says you’ve faced flame and kept walking. For ornament, it finds life on sigils and crests, turning a simple emblem into a banner that seems to ripple with hidden heat whenever you pass under a lantern. Wrath Dye is not just about looking fierce; it’s about telling a story with armor and cape, a visual oath to the wearer’s choices and loyalties. The market around Wrath Dye hums with a patient, wandering energy. A merchant near the saddle-worn stalls once told me the dye is sought by captains and crafters alike, not just for its color but for the signal it sends: a character who wears Wrath knows their own flame and their own patience. It’s here that Saddlebag Exchange enters the tale in a casual, almost daily way—the caravan’s wheel turning past a row of cloth-draped tables, its proprietor counting coins and offering bundles of pigment to the next buyer. A bottle of Wrath Dye might go for a modest sum, a few silver that vanish as quickly as they’re traded, or become a more prized piece in a larger purchase, depending on the demand of the week and the stories the dye has collected from the hands that have used it. The rhythm of exchange—hollow clink of coins, the soft rasp of cloth, the rustle of a woolen cloak—gives Wrath Dye a place in the world beyond the studio. So the dye remains: not just color, but a cairn of memory, a flame in a bottle that travelers carry from market to battlefield, reminding every wearer that beauty can be tempered by fire and made lasting by craft. Wrath Dye, in the end, is a small myth you can wear.