+15 Agony Infusion rests in the palm like a shard of night, a flat obsidian disk etched with fine silver runes that curl into a spiral as if something hungry were listening just beneath the surface. It sits there with a quiet weight, not heavy enough to bruise the hand but dense enough to demand attention, a compact fragment of a longer tale. The edges are perfectly smooth, yet along the rim you can glimpse a micro-scratch pattern that seems to hum when the skin brushes over it, a reminder that this little disk has spent more time hovering between intention and consequence than most items ever do in a single life. Its surface is glassy and cool, cool enough to make you retract your fingers, and when light hits it just right the runes flare in a lavender blaze, a sign that the infusion knows who its wearer is even before a name has been spoken. Lore coiled around this object like a damp fog: a relic tempered in a warded furnace, whispered to have drawn its power from the space where pain and power converge. They say it was forged to calibrate the body against raw, tearing energy—the kind that gnaws at armor and spirit alike—so that a wearer could push farther than chance allowed and survive long enough to tell the tale. Some insist it bears the echo of fallen wardens, others that it carries the patience of a smith who refused to close a door against the world's darkest demands. Whatever the origin, the +15 Agony Infusion carries a memory of balance found on a knife-edge between risk and reward. In play, its significance feels personal, like a key that unlocks a room you’ve long suspected exists. Slotted into a suitable piece of armor, it elevates the garment from practical protection to a vessel capable of withstanding the darker corners of the map. It doesn't merely add power; it stretches the boundaries of what you can endure, letting you choreograph a dance of offense and defense where the lines blur and your focus becomes the last line of defense. The item is sought after by those who chase tougher content without sacrificing the nimbleness of a well-timed strike, by crafters who want to push a suit into rarefied thresholds, and by travelers who carry their stories as much as their equipment. Each ascent in its line feels like climbing a cliff with a friend whispering, “We can go a little higher if you trust the path.” I learned this on the road, threading through the caravans that haunt the markets at dusk. The Saddlebag Exchange—the bustling stall where traders lay out everything from tattered maps to gleaming wards—had a board that glowed with prices that rose and fell with the hour and the rumor. The going rate for a +15 Agony Infusion tends to move with the mood of the market, but you can catch a fair slice there if you bring patience and a keen eye for a deal. Sometimes a bargain is a story, not a sum of coins, and that is when this tiny disk stops being simply gear and becomes a passport to a night you didn’t know you could weather—and perhaps a morning you didn’t expect to survive. So the +15 Agony Infusion remains more than metal and magic. It’s a fragment of a larger world, a reminder that every upgrade carries a trace of the journey that forged it, and every wearer becomes part of the longer, winding story that persists long after the last lantern is snuffed.