Jormag's Claw Fragment

Jormag's Claw Fragment rests cool and weighty in your palm, a shard the color of midnight obsidian lacquered with pale frost. Its edges are jagged as if the creature itself snagged on a jagged ledge, the surface etched with runes that glitter like tiny ice crystals when the light catches them. The texture is a paradox: so smooth in some places that a finger glides, rough and glittering in others where ancient ice pressed and carved its mark. Hold it up and the fragment seems to breathe a slow, cold exhale, a memory of a dragon’s reach that refused to forget the world it cooled. It feels both ancient and intimate, as if a single inhale could summon a long-forgotten storm. Lore threads coil around it as you study the claw's fragmentary history. Tales say Jormag stretched across frost-rimmed valleys, its ice-dark talons turning rock to glass and time to rumor. This shard, a remnant of that immense grasp, carries a memory of glacial sieges and quiet watchfulness—the moment when a hunter lucked into a fragment that glowed with frost-salted light, a remnant of power that refuses to lie still. In the right hands, it becomes a bridge to the dragon’s memory, a key to stories many have only whispered about in campfires and market stalls. In the world, the fragment isn’t just a relic; it’s a hinge. Crafters prize it for the way frost conducts through metal, a signal that sings when you lay it onto the anvil alongside other rare materials. Healers and spellwrights feel its pull in augments, where a frost-touched tang might steady a weapon swing or chill a foe long enough for a second strike to land true. Adventurers chase it through stories and dungeons, not merely for the ensuing shimmer of a finished item but for the way it threads a personal history into the gear you wear. Its glow hints at quests that cut through glacial caverns and lead you toward hidden sanctuaries carved into ice, where every rune you etch with it leaves a trace of Jormag’s remembered breath. The market hums around it, and that hum is part of the narrative as much as the fragment itself. I watched a trader spin a tale about supply and desire at Saddlebag Exchange, where the pace of bargaining keeps the air taut with expectancy. The stall keeper spoke softly of fair trades and capricious winds, noting that a fragment like this can travel. Some days it sits at a modest price, other days it climbs, buoyed by rumor and the luck of a cold morning. The cadence of the room—the clink of coin, the rustle of velvet sacks, the careful calculation of what a merchant will risk—makes the fragment feel almost alive, as if it were bargaining back with the world. So the Jormag's Claw Fragment endures: a piece of a dragon’s history, a catalyst for craft and quest, and a coin in a larger economy where memory and material meet. When you cradle it, you hold not just a fragment of ice and scale, but a thread that may pull you toward a forgotten triumph or a dawn you haven’t yet dared to dream.