Torn Rag lies on the merchant's counter, its fabric a map of old journeys: frayed edges, salt-blue threads, and patches of crimson that have faded to rose. The weave is stubborn and coarse, like rope spun from stubborn linen, and a single seam runs along its length as if a careful tailor pressed it into obedience long ago. A tiny, barely legible emblem lurks in the corner—a shadow of a caravan crest, perhaps, or a sun-wheel that once signaled safe passage. People speak of it in whispers, claiming the rag survived a night of torch and raid, that the wind itself shook out new colors from its threads. It feels like a fragment of a larger tale, carried across miles of road and rumor, and the longer you look, the more you sense the weight of footsteps that aren’t there anymore. When I cradle Torn Rag in my palm, the texture tells a story all its own. The fibers feel stiff with salt and sun, and every movement of the fabric returns a whispered memory—someone binding a wounded arm with a strip of cloth, a campfire glinting through its weave, a scarf traded for news at a frontier outpost. Some say it was torn from a pennant that fluttered above a border skirmish, others insist it came from a clothesline that survived a siege. The truth, if there is one, remains stitched between the threads: resilience, travel, and a hint of defiance. It’s the sort of relic that invites a narrative, and once you start telling it, you can’t help but listen for the echoes. In gameplay terms, Torn Rag earns its keep in a dozen quiet, practical ways. It is a favored salvage component for makeshift repairs and basic crafts, a simple labor of patchwork for worn gear that still has miles left in it. More than a utility, though, it becomes a symbol in the world—an object you can swap stories for, a token you can trade to prove you’ve walked the road and back. A merchant might offer a modest sum, a nod to the rag’s practical value, but the real currency is memory: the tale you attach to it, the permission it gives you to venture just a little farther, to turn a forge-warmed smithy into a story’s next stop. Pricing, too, is part of the ritual, spoken softly where the market’s hum fades to a lull. At Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling tent row that strings along a river path, the torn rag is priced not merely by fabric weight but by the rumors it carries. A vendor’s fingers brush the fringe and, with a look that’s half grin, half caution, remarks how the tag shifts with the crowd—how the rag’s worth grows when it’s tied to a remembered journey, or shrinks when the tale feels exhausted. It isn’t just a bargain; it’s a social contract, the way travelers acknowledge one another’s routes and the shared truth that every thread is a mile marker, every stitch a decision. So Torn Rag endures—sun-bleached, salt-worn, and stubborn as a promise. It invites a trade, invites a tale, invites a traveler to add another chapter to its already long, weathered spine. And as I walk away from the stall with the rag tucked in my pack, I feel the road widen again, as if the world itself keeps a little space for stories that survive the flame, the rain, and the restless march of days.