Cyanide Dye

Cyanide Dye sits in a squat glass vial, its liquid a crisp cyan that seems to breathe as you tilt it to the lamplight. The hue glimmers with a depth like a shoreline where ocean and ice meet. A viscous thread clings to the glass when you swirl it, a hint of harm tempered by artisan care. The cork wears a ring of wax, dark as old blood, and a sticker half peeled away bears the jagged handwriting of a dye-smith who learned to test limits before naming them. In the right hand, the vial feels like a dare you can walk into: you lift it, and suddenly a chest of possibilities swells in your wardrobe. Legends claim Cyanide Dye was born from the hush of a forbidden workshop, where alchemists poured scavenged memories of venom into resin until a color arose that could survive the sun and still whisper danger. It is said the color remembers experiments on mapmakers who never returned from the night market, leaving only notes about how cyan can cut through ordinary cloth and reveal the nerve of a fabric's weave. For a world that trades in skin and stories, the dye is less pigment than a signal, a line drawn in color to mark a choice: to be seen, to be wary, to walk with the quiet certainty that some shades belong to those who dare. When you apply Cyanide Dye via a dye tray, the result is precise and cool. It doesn't shout; it asserts. Armor panels take on a gleam that mirrors a winter noon, with glints along the edges where metal meets cloth. It works particularly well with ash-black leather and steel, or with pale desert fabrics, giving a look that reads like a calculated gamble rather than a fashion flourish. Players use it for occasion gear, for heists and courtly intrigues in the stories they imagine as they move through towns. Pricing travels through the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders handle wares as if they were fragile rumors. The dye is sold in small batches; its price swings with rumor and demand, sometimes a handful of silver, sometimes a gold or two, depending on who has need and which messenger just arrived with a shipment. A careful buyer learns to haggle, to watch the stalls' boards, to catch the moment when the dye glows a fraction brighter and the vendor leans in to whisper that a rival caravan passed through the night with a sample of the hue. The Saddlebag Exchange becomes more than a market here: it's a conduit for stories, a place where a color can change hands like a secret. Slung over a shoulder, the vial is a promise—the bond between a craftsman's skill and a traveler who wants to leave a mark as durable as their tale. Cyanide Dye doesn't just color armor; it colors possibility, inviting you to step into a story where every seam tells a dare and every aura of cyan invites a choice.