Rabid Amulet

The Rabid Amulet rests on the collarbone like a heartbeat pressed between bone and metal: an oval of bone-white stone, set in a ring of weathered bronze. Its surface wears a lattice of fine scratches, each one a memory of a chase, of something fever-bright and wild. A central onyx chip gleams when light pools on it, as if it swallowed a fragment of night. Runes curl along the edge, serpentine glyphs that seem to ripple when you speak to them, and the whole thing smells faintly of rain, copper, and old leather. People say it was tempered in the fangs of a rabid beast and bound to a hunter's charm by a smith who could hear a scream in the metal. In the field, the amulet sits heavy with purpose; it is not a trinket to dangle for display but a tool worn by those who walk a bleaker path, a talisman for condition-based work. It feeds into the wearer’s rhythm—like a pulse that sharpens the bite of Bleed, Poison, and the other little curses that creep over a foe. Those who choreograph condition-damage builds tend to prize it for the way it nudges duration and potency, letting a single strike linger in an enemy's wake even as they circle for the next move. The amulet’s glow is not showy; it’s a quiet, faithful ally in a long pursuit. Whispers connect the piece to a wild story: a pack of rangers who hunted through the broken foothills, or a trader spared by a rabid brood and bound the memory into metal so it could never forget the chase. Wearers swear they can feel the tale guiding their hands—like a second voice urging restraint when the fight grows fever-bright and a sudden impulse to strike when an opening presents itself. Market life drifts around such talismans as much as the bloodlines of their myths. In the Saddlebag Exchange, where prices drift with season and rumor, an unweathered Rabid Amulet will fetch a fair share of silver, while one with a patina tells a longer story and may demand a few trinkets in barter. The shopkeeper’s eyes scan the metal for signs—crackled edge, a wink of that onyx—and then weigh its history against the current demand for condition builds. It’s not merely commerce; it’s a living memory, traded as much as worn. Carrying the Rabid Amulet through a skirmish is to walk with a small, hungry thing at your side, a partner that demands discipline and respect. It reminds you that gear is never merely a stat line but a narrative you wear: the price you paid, the foes you outmaneuvered, the moments you let bleed and burn long enough to bend the battlefield to your will.