Norgu's Mask

Norgu's Mask rests on the table, a pale crescent of bone curved to fit a face. Its surface is matte and cool, with a patina of dust that hides chips along the edge. Carved sigils thread across the brow and cheeks—lantern-twined runes, almost unreadable—while the eye sockets gape with a patient vacancy. The inside bears a resinous film, as if centuries had pressed it to a living face, listening for whispers in the dark. When you cradle it, the air grows denser, as if the mask invites you to lean closer to a memory no one is ready to tell. From the tales that drift between taverns, Norgu wore this mask to hide more than his features; it was a seal that kept his dealings with the dead from the living's eyes. Some say it was carved in a temple where bone and spellwork braided, a relic meant to bind a necromancer’s memory to the world. On quiet nights, pedlars whisper that the sigils once pulsed with blue light, and that whoever bears the mask might glimpse that old enchantment—the sense that the past is watching you, judging your choices. In practice, the mask functions as more than a pretty face. It carries an aura of gravitas, a signal that you are aware of the weight behind every rumor and tomb you pass. It is a cosmetic piece that accompanies a longer journey, the texture of bone reminding you of the fragile line between memory and oblivion. Players speak of it as a talisman for midnight wanderers—an emblem worn when you seek to blend into ancient streets and hear old rumors anew. It may not change your stats, but it changes the story others tell about you, and sometimes that is enough to open a door that stats cannot. Markets drift along the waterfront through the city’s districts, where a name on a tag can matter as much as the thing itself. I watched a collector hover by a stall, fingers itching toward the mask as if it might tilt and reveal a secret. The vendor spoke in careful, practiced phrases about rarity and provenance, a dance that still felt like a story told aloud. In that corridor of bargains, the price of Norgu's Mask shifts with mood and memory—the kind of item that fetches a tidy sum when the moon is generous, or sits stubbornly until a patient buyer appears. Saddlebag Exchange is the crossroads where histories are weighed, bargained, and handed down, and the mask’s value is as much rumor as metal. To own Norgu's Mask is to hold a fragment of a chronicle, a reminder that relics carry the weight of every hand that wore them and every rumor spoken beside them. You slip it on, and the room tilts toward a forgotten chapel, toward a voice that calls you by a name you never chose yet cannot forget. And as you move, the sigils glow enough to suggest you are listening to echoes of a past.