Onyx Shard

Onyx Shard rests in the palm like a fragment of night—a teardrop of obsidian, perfectly smooth on one facet and dangerously jagged on the other. Its surface drinks the light, a deep, velvet-black that seems to inhale every stray glint and return it as a patient, cold spark. Small silver veins thread its core, tracing patterns that look, to the trained eye, almost like a map of old fault lines. If you press your thumb to it, the shard yields a hush, a weight that feels older than the hands that cradle it, as if it remembers cities sunk under ash and rain. Lore ties it to a long-buried quarry where stonewrights taught their apprentices to listen to the rock and temper fear with patience. Some whisper that the shard carries a memory of a vanished guild, their sigils etched into the dark so they could wake when the ground shifted. Others swear it hums when the moon is new, a soft murmur that sounds like distant tides. In play, the Onyx Shard behaves as if it respects that memory. Traders regard it as a catalyst, something that can bend a recipe or unlock a hidden slot in a weapon or accessory. Crafting circles speak of it as a steadying influence—not the loud, flashy kind of power, but the kind that makes other materials sing together. When a blade glints with its touch, the edge grows quieter, as if the shard tethers stray magic to a single, deliberate strike. The need for it waxes and wanes with the world’s moods; when old stories surge to the surface, more seekers appear, and the marketplaces creak with new whispers. I learned this first-hand on a late afternoon at the Saddlebag Exchange, a long, bustling row of canopies and stamped leather that clung to the hillside like a living map. A merchant with soot on her fingers slid an Onyx Shard across the counter, the coin pouch at her hip jangling with copper and silver. “Prices hold to the moon’s pace,” she said, not giving away a number, but letting me feel the drift of value as if it were a tide. Some weeks it trades for a few stray relics; in others, rumor lifts the shard above the common trade and it circles through rare trades and auction-like haggling. It’s not the kind of gem you rush to claim; it’s the kind that makes a story wait for you to finish listening. If you carry it far enough, the shard’s simple, patient glow becomes a companion in the workshop. It settles into a transmute or infusion, listening for the right partner, and then, with the proper catalyst, reveals a stronger blade, a tougher shield, or a talisman that holds a night-sky focus. In this world, the Onyx Shard does not shout. It invites; it invites you to remember, to negotiate, to build, and to carry forward the quiet promise of stone turned to purpose. Perhaps tomorrow the shard will teach me again.