Salvageable Metal Scrap gleams dullly under the streetlamp, a jagged sliver of old iron that still carries a stubborn echo of its past purpose. The surface wears a map of years in rust-streaked veins, as if the metal couldn’t decide whether to keep its shine or to give in to the slow, patient kiss of time. In some places the coating has peeled away to reveal a pale, almost coppery core, while tiny rivet impressions sit like pockmarks from a once-violent hammering. It’s not pretty in the way a polished blade is, but it holds a certain quiet dignity—the kind that comes from surviving a dozen disassembled machines, a dozen failed repairs, and a dozen hands that tried to put it to work again. Touching it sends a whisper of texture: rough and cold, with a grainy grit that clings to gloves and breath alike. Scratches arc across its face, as if it slept through the clang of a workshop and woke to find a new life between the world’s teeth. There’s a faint mineral scent, not quite metallic, more like an old coin that has been tucked away in a pocket for years. You can trace the serrated edge where something once snapped, or a maker’s mark worn to near illegibility, a fingerprint of a craftsman who believed in reuse more than in grandeur. In the right light the scrap reflects a stubborn glint, the promise of a second chance. Lore lovers like to point to those marks as a chorus of origin stories. Some say Salvageable Metal Scrap is forged from the hull plating of long-forgotten caravans, patched together again and again by hands that learned patience more than speed. Others swear it’s the relic of ships that braved storms and sieges, their decks bent but not broken, their joints kept alive by the stubborn will of the people who revived them. Whether iron, alloy, or something in between, the scrap carries a memory: that cities endure by patching broken things, by turning what is left into something that can keep moving. In the field, the scrap moves from memory to metal with a practical quiet. It’s not only a reminder but a resource—salvaged from disassembled tools, broken armor, or torn banners, then reimagined into something usable. Crafters prize it for mid-tier projects, for reinforcing straps, or for turning stubborn bits into sturdy components that keep gear from failing in the heat of a long trek. It can be traded, bartered, or carried to a shop to be melted down, melted back up into something that serves a new purpose. When a caravan needs repairs, when a blacksmith needs a quick infusion of material, Salvageable Metal Scrap is there to be pressed into service, to keep the wheels turning and the fires burning. On a sunlit morning in the market corridor, a stall near Saddlebag Exchange catches the eye with little heaps of dull metal stacked like unspoken stories. Here the price drifts with need and rumor, copper coins clinking in pockets and sellers whispering about a spike in repairs after a storm. The exchange can be brisk: a handful of scrap for a few copper if the demand is quiet, or enough silver tossed into the air if a repair rush suddenly hits the town. It’s a simple economy, born of necessity and the stubborn spirit to reuse what remains, and Salvageable Metal Scrap sits at its heart, a small, stubborn beacon of resilience in a world that never seems to stop breaking and rebuilding.