Apothecary's Exalted Masque

The Apothecary's Exalted Masque rests on a velvet cushion, its porcelain face half-veiled by a lattice of silver filigree and amber glass that catches fire-light with every turn. The texture is cool and almost slick, like polished bone, yet the edges are razor-fine, as if cut by a surgeon's hand. Delicate straps of ebony lacquer cradle the temples, and a minute vial motif crowns the brow, glinting when a lantern passes. A whisper of jasmine ink swirls in the lacquer, a signature of the apothecary's craft, and the whole piece bears a maker's stamp—an alchemist's promise pressed into brass and bone-white enamel. Legends say the masque belonged to a healer who walked the winding alleys of a city where sickness moved as quickly as night winds. It was said to conceal more than the face: a patient ally who could slip a cautious smile into a crisis, defusing fear with a familiar glow. In every etched line and in the soft glow of amber glass, you can read a tale of careful hands and a vow to preserve life with precision. The lore threads the wearer to a guild of apothecaries who measured courage in drops and kept records in ink and glass. In the field, the masque becomes less a shield of vanity and more a symbol—an identity you assume among traders, healers, and those who know the old stories. It is primarily cosmetic, yet it carries weight in roleplay and in the museum-like sense of shared history. Players chasing a figure of diagnosis wear it to complete a set, to tell a story with their look, and to earn the quiet confidence a healer radiates. Dyes glow differently against its pale surface, letting the masque shift from winter-night pallor to sunlit ivory with a single brush. Belonging to a lineage of exalted pieces, it is often paired with capes, gauntlets, or robes that speak of careful craft and risk. Prices drift like medicine in transit. On mornings when the stalls spill all their rumors, you’ll find traders discussing it under awnings, and the Saddlebag Exchange ledger coolly noting each sale. A whispered number—enough to tempt a patient buyer, enough to humble a curious one—appears in copper, silver, and gold values as negotiators tug at the price with a practiced smile. The exchange’s crowd knows this piece’s story, and a few savvy merchants will trade a vial or a tradeable skin for it, trading stories as eagerly as coins. Between the clink of coins and the soft clack of glass, the Apothecary's Exalted Masque travels again. It rests on a new brow, the jasmine scent curling into air, a reminder that a single face can carry a dozen lifetimes of craft. It becomes a thread in the larger tapestry of the world’s careful healers, a token of trust in a place where danger is constant and mercy is rare, and a distant reminder that beauty and duty can walk side by side, even in the most hurried hour today.