Carrion Flame Carrier of Water

The Carrion Flame Carrier of Water rests on a faded leather cloth, its form an improbable marriage of ash-white bone and living glow. The outer shell looks like a miniature ribcage, every splinter of bone carved with careful, almost ceremonial notches, as if the relic once stood guard over a long-forgotten sanctuary. Inside, a wick of flame—a pale, ember-orange heart—breathes in little sighs, leaping only when the air turns cooler and the shadows lean closer. Around that core, a lattice of dark metal cages a single teardrop of water, crystal-clear and perpetually half-misted, that seems to cradle the flame without extinguishing it. The texture is a curious blend of rough, time-worn bone and a heat-softened metal that bears a faint, coppery tang when you press your fingertip to it. Light slips through the gaps like veins of dawn, and the whole piece hums with a quiet, intimate warmth that makes bystanders lean in as if listening to a whispered story. Lore has a way of clinging to things like this, and the Carrion Flame Carrier of Water carries one that feels older than the canal stones it rests beside. It’s said to have served in a cadre of water-keepers who moved through towns and swamps, carrying a map of springs and aquifers in their minds, feeding streams where drought gnawed at the banks. The flame, they claimed, remembers the places it has saved—little preserves of moisture in the mouths of dry seasons. Some tell of a vow etched into the runes along the metal cage, a pledge to keep waters alive even when the world forgets to hold its breath. When you cradle it, you can almost hear the old marsh sigh, the scent of brine and smoke curling up at the edges of your vision, and you understand why it’s more than ornament: it’s a gateway to memory, a reminder that water and warmth can coexist in fragile harmony. In practical terms, the item functions as a conduit for water-based effects in the world’s wider theater. When carried, it seems to temper heat in the vicinity, cooling hands that hold it and softening the glare of sun-struck stones. In moments of danger, the teardrop’s pressure releases a fine mist that dampens blades and slows the march of heat on the battlefield, while a whispered tap of the bone-iron lattice can crest a small, protective shield of steam that foams and curls at the edges. It is not a weapon, but a companion—an emblem of restraint and balance in a landscape where fire and rain push and pull at every choice you make. Adventurers who chase the relics of old routes know that such items are rarely solitary; they open doors to new couriers of rumor, to partners who trade in the secrets of moisture, and to quests that hinge on understanding where water hides when the world seems ready to burn. Market talk inevitably threads into the tale. In the clogged aisles of Saddlebag Exchange, where wagon wheels groan and traders swap stories as freely as coins, the Carrier of Water is priced not by the beauty of its flame but by the reliability of its omen. A careful bargaining dance—humility, a touch of urgency, a nod to scarcity—can bring the price down in silver and copper, though the true measure lies in whether the buyer believes the relic will keep them to the shade of a river’s edge for one more day. Lovers of old tech and quiet magic whisper that some days it’s worth more than gold; other days, it’s a clever indulgence. Prices drift with drought and rain, with the fevered rumor of a spring that never ends, and the Saddlebag Exchange shuffles its wares like a river stones its bed—curious, persistent, and always moving forward.