Carcharias sits in the palm like a fossilized grin, a curved jaw carved from pale bone that gleams with a salt-kissed patina. Its surface is cool and slightly rough, the enamel facets catching the light in brief, cruel flashes, as if a seawater sun had etched its memory into the material. A thread of coral-red resin runs along the hinge, binding the jaw into a compact talisman, and the teeth themselves—sharp and symmetrical—seem to glint with a patient hunger. The piece feels weighty in a way that promises history: a relic recovered from wrecks that lie beneath a moonlit tide, a token that has learned to listen to the ocean’s oldest stories. The lore surrounding it is a tide pool of rumors: some say it was forged by a reef-worn priesthood that believed the sea spoke in teeth and currents; others insist it is a trophy torn from the jaw of a leviathan’s kin, a symbol of respect paid to the deep’s ruthless, patient rulers. No matter the origin, Carcharias carries a whisper of the water’s dual nature—the lure of the surface and the fear that lies beneath. In the world it inhabits, Carcharias feels like more than ornament. Those who encounter it in camp and market speak of its role as a conduit between explorer and the sea’s memory. Worn on a strap at the belt or set into a piece of jewelry, it seems to anchor a traveler’s courage, urging the wearer to listen before acting and to let the tide decide the timing of a bold move. Its presence shifts conversations on the docks, where captains recount storms survived and sailors trade ghost stories of reefs that could swallow a ship in a single breath. In gameplay terms, the relic acts as a narrative catalyst—an emblem that unlocks a chain of coastal encounters, a sequence of events tied to the sea’s moods. Those who claim it as their own often report a subtle shift in how they move through water-streaked environments, how they interpret weather cues, and how they approach coastal ruins where history is layered in barnacles and coral dust. It isn’t a simple boost in power; it’s an invitation to ride the current of a larger sea-saga, to become a character who carries a memory that isn’t entirely theirs. Market chatter threads through the tale as well. Traders speak of Carcharias with a hunger that matches the thing’s own, and if you linger long enough by a well-placed stall, you’ll overhear whispers that price follows the rhythm of the tides. The Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling open-air ledger of what’s gained and what’s lost, lists pristine specimens with a tide-watching calm, noting how demand climbs when festival bells ring or when weather-driven expeditions return with fresh tales and new scars. A keeper there will tell you softly that the right moment—when the wind shifts, when the surf throws back a glimmer of the sun—can make a single Carcharias anchor a day’s voyage into a season’s legend. And so the jaw rests, patient as the sea itself, waiting for the moment a new reader will hear its call and set forth once more.