Accursed Chains lie coiled on a damp wood table, the metal dark as ash and the links slick with a thin film of something not quite oil and not quite rust. Each ring catches the pale lantern light and spits back a cold glint, as if a frozen breath were trapped within, waiting for a whisper to thaw it. The surface is a tapestry of scratches and sigils—tendrils of script slashed across the iron, circles and triangles like a map drawn by someone who forgot how to forgive. When you lift the chain, its weight settles like a history you can feel in your knuckles—heavy, deliberate, and a touch mournful. The texture is paradoxically velvety along the edges, where the metal has worn smooth, yet points of sharp hardness announce themselves with a cautious jab against your palm. Legends insist the cloth-wrapped bundle once housed a condemned relic, and the chains themselves carry the echo of a doomed bargain that refused to be forgotten. In the whisper of its lore, Accursed Chains are tied to the old Wars of Orr, when the city’s gates bled and the dead learned to walk with a memory of their captors. The craftsmen who forged them were said to bargain with the Gates of Night, binding the sighs of the trapped into the very links. People swore that to wear or wield them was to invite a tether—not merely to the past but to an unquiet forward march of souls that could tug at your conscience when the night grows thin. Practitioners of necromancy and those who chase whispers from the crypts have long sought the item for its symbolic gravity: a reminder that power is not free, and the price is sometimes paid in echoes. Gameplay-wise, the chains carry a pull of their own. They’re treated as a relic that elevates a certain kind of discipline—items that reward restraint, timing, and the willingness to bend one’s own fate to influence the field. Wielders speak of chains that tighten a little too sweetly around a foe’s aura, amplifying the effect of lingering conditions and enabling a follow-up burst when the moment demands it. They are not simply a stat stick; they’re a story, a compact between hunter and hunted, a tool for those who read the battlefield like a diary and know that the page turns where fear and resolve meet. Market means as much as myth, and here the chain becomes a traveler’s tale as much as a weapon’s hinge. I watched a trader haggle with a pair of boots and a lantern at Saddlebag Exchange, where rumors move faster than coins and prices shift with every new fragment of rumor. The clerk’s eye gleamed when the subject drifted to Accursed Chains, speaking softly of rarity, the weight of demand among collectors and certain opportunistic craftsfolk who value the chain’s aura as much as its power. A price said in the language of gold and trade scraps drifted upward and then settled into a cautious range, with the sense that the true cost isn’t merely what a merchant can weigh on a scale, but what a buyer is willing to carry back through the market’s winding corridors. So the Accursed Chains remain not just a relic of iron and rune, but a hinge upon which stories turn. In the hands of a careful keeper, they become more than fear’s reminder; they become a thread that ties yesterday’s shadows to tomorrow’s choices, the kind of object that asks a person to walk a little closer to the edge and listen for what the chain might say if it learned your name.