Vision of the Mists

Vision of the Mists rests in the palm like a teardrop of glass, its surface a living fog that clings to the skin even when you slide it between your fingers. The orb is pale and pearlescent, with veins of moonlit silver winding through its core, and a whisper-thin lattice of sigils that catch the light and flicker with every breath. Tilt it, and the fog inside sighs outward, curling into miniature storms that vanish as quickly as they appear. It is cool to the touch, yet hums with a memory of rain and pressure, as if it learned the weather of distant places and learned to keep it safe within its frost-bright glaze. The lore stitched into its rim speaks of mist-worshiping hands who believed the veil between worlds thins at dawn, and that the Mists themselves were a library of echoes—battles, choices, and chances all pressed into a single, watchful glance. When you cradle it, the room seems to tilt just enough to remind you that you are listening to history rather than reading it. In the field, the Vision becomes part compass, part story-teller. Activate it and a pale syllabus of memory unfurls above the horizon: a translucent map that doesn’t merely show where to go, but what you might hear if you step onto that path. Hidden doors reveal themselves as soft silhouettes, sigils on walls glow faintly, and vanished footprints lay down a breadcrumb trail for those patient enough to follow. It does not force a shortcut; it nudges you toward the slower, more deliberate routes—the cracks between the questions where a chest may sleep or a relic court found its verdict. For a party crossing ruined temples or wandering charnel towns, it marks the seams in the architecture where truth leaks through—where a switch under a dais, a pressure plate behind a statue, or a broken stairway might finally click into place. In calmer moments, it lends a gentler gift: a glimpse of the spirits that linger in the corners, a whispered clue from a former caretaker that can avert a trap or invite a safer approach to a curiously arcane puzzle. Market dust and caravan dust mingle in the same breath when the Vision finds its way to the Saddlebag Exchange, where vagrant merchants haggle over rarities and memories alike. Folks who’ve held one speak in hush-notes about the way its glow shifts with the buyer’s intent, and the chatter among booths often skews toward whether the item is worth chasing in this season’s patches. Prices drift like fog—sometimes a small gold piece, sometimes a grand exchange that makes you reconsider what you’ve left behind in a lantern-lit pocket of the world. Whether it’s a steal or a pinnacle of patience, the whisper of Saddlebag Exchange reminds you that some truths are measured not only by what they reveal, but by the willingness of a street crowd to bet on what lies beyond. Holding the Vision, you sense you’re not merely looking at the world; you are listening to it. The Mists, after all, is a library of echoes, and this glassy key lets you turn a page or two more before the wind swallows the ink. It is a talisman of curiosity, a reminder that every corridor, every ruin, every whispered legend holds a route home if you slow your step and listen long enough.