+5 Agony Infusion

+5 Agony Infusion gleams with a molten violet core cradled in a tarnished bronze setting. The surface is as smooth as glass, yet when you tilt it, a faint storm of lilac motes swirls inside, like captured thunder pressing against the confines of a tiny prison. Runes serpentine along the bezel whisper of restraint and endurance, and the whole piece hums with a patient, almost hungry energy that invites a wearer to prove themselves. It feels lighter than its weight, as if a fragment of a deeper struggle had been distilled into metal and glass, then pressed into service for a single, stubborn purpose. The lore threads through it in a way you can almost hear rather than read—an echo of the old wars where pain was shaped into power, then tempered into something portable, something you could slip beneath your sleeve or into a glove and carry into the next corridor of danger. In the world where such things travel, its significance is not merely ornamental. The +5 Agony Infusion acts as a key, a way to push a piece of armor into a higher tier of resilience and endurance. People who chase the fractal scales, who test themselves against the shifting tides of the Mists, prize it for the extra margin it provides when the air grows thick with pressure and the corridors seem to tighten. It’s not about flashy numbers so much as about weathering the moment when every breath costs more than the last. Slot it into a chest piece or bracer, and you can feel the infusion’s quiet promise—an extra layer of steadiness as you weave through carapace and crystal, absorbing blows that would once have found a gap in your defenses. It makes you believe that a single holdout can become a habit, a habit can become a strategy, and a strategy can carry your whole party through a night that would otherwise unravel. Market chatter around such items has its own cadence. Vendors talk in murmurs and glinting eyes, bargaining over the precise shade of that violet glow and the assurance that the infusion’s bind remains true. Saddlebag Exchange, with its crowded stalls and wheeled crates stacked like a city’s heartbeat, is where the trade happens most quickly. A handful of coins here, a few more there, and the infusion moves from hand to hand like a remembered rumor—sometimes a tidy gold, sometimes less, depending on the season, demand, and the readiness of a buyer to trust the story behind the shine. I’ve watched a pair of fractal veterans pause at a stall, their fingers brushing the edge of the case as the dealer spoke in a soft, careful tone—how this infusion could tip the balance on a difficult run, how a team’s confidence could rise with one more, quiet certainty. So the +5 Agony Infusion travels as much as its bearer does, a small relic of the world’s stubborn insistence that pain, when tempered, becomes something durable, something that endures and helps you endure.