Salvaged Dignity sits on the shelf of a dimly lit market stall, a small object that seems to carry more weather than metal. Its brass skin is dulled to a satin patina, like the surface of a riverstone after years of being rubbed by sand. A crest, once sharp, has softened into a crescent of lines, a reminder of a faded oath. The edges are rounded by rain and time, and the center holds a crack where a sliver of cracked lacquer remains, catching the light in a tiny, stubborn glint. A threadbare ribbon of scarlet cloth is looped around its bail, frayed at the ends as if pulled through many hands, many stories. The whole thing feels as if it ought to have a name, or at least a voice, and in a whisper it does: dignity, salvaged from a moment of failing judgment. Locals say it was once part of a captain's coat during a siege, torn away when the ship docked at a quiet cove to mend itself in the rain. The dignity didn’t survive the voyage, but the item did, pressed into a pocket or a drawer where it learned to listen rather than to boast. Those who handle Salvaged Dignity do so with care, as if respecting a memory rather than owning a relic. When an employer asks a mercenary to bring back things that still hold feeling, the item becomes a contract of sorts—not for violence, but for restraint: a reminder to pause, to weigh options, to choose the wiser path. In the marketplace, Salvaged Dignity moves between booths the way a rumor travels—softly, then more quickly as curiosity gathers. Its presence is a signal that not all loot is simply gold and glass; some of it is testimony. Players prize it not just for its appearance but for the stories it unlocks in conversation, for the way it can pivot a barter toward something kinder than coin alone. Traders talk aloud about its potential uses, and a smile travels through the crowd when they recall how such an item might be applied in a quest that asks for more than brute strength. Some sellers claim it can unlock a small boon in a crafting line, others insist it’s a key to a collection that can be completed with patience and a careful eye. Prices drift through the stalls, and a chatter of arithmetic answers back with coin and trade. Saddlebag Exchange, a name spoken with a touch of affection, has become a common waypoint for such exchanges: a place where the carded numbers of a ledger meet the weathered textures of a found artifact. There, Salvaged Dignity earns its keep, not as a trophy of conquest but as a memory that travels, at once heavy and hopeful, from one palm to another, from one tale to the next. Maybe the item’s true power lies in its invitation: to pause, listen, and swap stories as coins, letting dignity survive where bravado would not again.