Errol's Mask sits on a faded velvet cushion, its surface a deep, lacquered rosewood that catches the lamp's amber glow and returns it with a patient, glassy trace. The mask's contours are clean and swift: almond-shaped eye holes, a narrow brow, a gentle, crooked smile carved into wood rather than painted on. Brass inlays trace the rims, catching light as you turn it, and a faint, almost reptilian seam runs along the edge where ancient lacquer has held fast to itself for decades. A thread of patina runs along the nose, like a broken bead, and a ribbon of worn velvet tucks into the back, as if the wearer once slipped it beneath a hood and walked through a crowded amphitheater without drawing a single breath. Local whispers say it was forged for a master of disguise named Errol, who moved through masquerades as if the night itself wore him. They say the mask is rumor more than face, a relic that borrows a face for a few heartbeats. When the festival crowds gathered, it was said that whoever wore Errol's Mask could enter rooms where guards forgot to listen, as if the world trusted the mask to speak. Of course, in this world the mask is an object with branching life: a collectible, a cosmetic unlock, and in some seasons a trigger for quests. Players may equip it to finish a collection of forgotten courtyards; dye it to emerald or storm blue; pair it with a hood for a thief-king silhouette. The mask also invites players to test roleplay moments: a whispered oath in a smoky tavern, a hurried exchange in a moonlit market, or a cutscene that rewards patient investigation over brute force. It thus glides from a mere ornament into a hinge of narrative choice, offering texture to the world rather than power to characters. On market days you hear coin clinks and haggling from the Saddlebag Exchange, where disguises cluster and crates wait for new stories. Errol's Mask sits among ornate disguises, its price tag moving with supply and collectors' fever: not a weapon's claim, but a story's rent. A buyer might offer a neat handful of gold, a rarer dye, and a tale of chasing legends; a seller may counter with trade leather, lore fragments, and a promise the mask will travel beyond the walls again. In this marketplace, the mask gains a second life, not as a secret trick but as a shared memory. Even when it rests, it keeps watch—the memory of those who believed a carved face could speak the truth of a city. Errol’s Mask remains a bridge between how we want to be seen and how the world remembers us—a small artifact that makes a quiet street feel like a doorway into another story. Even as new masks arrive, Errol's persists, tucked in pockets and whispered by traders who believe a story can outlast a festival. For those who listen, its presence reminds that legend, like lacquer, deepens with time.