Tear of Grenth

Tear of Grenth rests in the palm, a teardrop-shaped gem of glassy obsidian that catches light and fractures it into pale blue shards. Its surface is cool as frost, smooth as glass, with a quiet ripple that travels under your skin when you hold it. A silver filigree wraps the stone, delicate as a spider’s web, and along the edge runes twist in a cold, sleep-stirring script. It looks like a drop caught between two winters, a thing that would shiver and sigh if it could speak. Legends say this is one of Grenth’s own tears, shed during a ritual that tried to bind a wailing spirit to the world’s border. In the sanctuaries where necromancers learned their first prayers, priests would cradle such tears, praying for mercy as the air turned to glass and a lingering chill lingered long after the candles burned out. The Tear of Grenth, however it came to be, travels not as a trophy but as a stubborn reminder that death, too, has a beauty worth bartering for. In the day-to-day of the market, players slide this small moon of shadow into a charm slot or use it as a rare component in crafts that shape a necromancer’s toolkit. When socketed, the Tear of Grenth is said to tug at lifeforce—granting a measured lifesteal and a momentary veil of resistance to those who walk the line between life and decline. For the right build it can sharpen minions’ presence, letting a death-warden priest call a warden’s gaze down on a crowded enemy and watch the line between life and death blur. It’s valued by those who chase a heavier, steadier cadence in battles of power, where every inhale of frost-worn energy can decide a skirmish’s outcome. And then there’s the road between dreams and coin. Traders drift from camp to camp, trading under the banner of Saddlebag Exchange, where a Tear of Grenth changes hands like a whispered secret. Some days it might gleam for a handful of gold; on others, a patient buyer—perhaps a collector who once bartered with bone dust and ember ash—will swap it for a price measured in silver, carved into a ledger that creaks with every footstep of a caravan. The value isn’t fixed, only tethered to the fear and longing that the relic conjures in a buyer’s heart. Yet even as markets thrum and the stone passes from palm to palm, the Tear of Grenth keeps its vigil, a quiet artifact that threads through the living and the dead. It invites stories—of bargains struck, of loyalties broken, of a single, cool glow that returns when a battle ends and a soul is spared just a breath longer than it should be. Some nights, the thrum of trades alone tells a story—the way a Tear of Grenth slips from palm to palm across campfires, a shared longing for answers that death keeps close. And as night deepens, the gem glows faintly, as if approving the next buyer’s courage, or perhaps forgiving the one who must part with it.