Pristine Feather glints on the scarred pine tabletop, a finger's length of pale quill with a frost-blue vane. Its surface is not merely smooth; it bears a microtexture like the wing of a moth, ridged and almost waxy to the touch. The shaft runs fine and pale, while the vane's edge catches the light and shimmers with a weathered gold when you tilt it toward a candle. The overall shape seems suspended in a moment of flight, as if the feather started to drift and then decided to rest. In the right lamplight you can see a delicate iridescence along the rachis, a tiny rainbow trapped in grain. Lore clings to it: a fragment plucked from the plume of a guardian hawk who stood between caravan and bandit, a sign of a safe passage. Its practical weight in the world comes from how artisans and travelers treat it. In service to crafters, the Pristine Feather is a coveted component in both practical gear and keepsakes. It is used in the feather-stitched bindings that lighten bags and reinforce satchels without adding bulk, and in sigils of illusion that shimmer when the wearer moves, a subtle nod to the bird's quiet grace. For the armorer's apprentice, it spices dyes and threads with a pale gleam, turning ordinary fabric into something that catches the eye of a trader and a guard alike. And for those who trade in chance and memory, a feather can be pressed into a small, sealed scroll that marks a promise, a pact to help a caravan through a treacherous pass. In other words, the Pristine Feather holds a narrative of guardianship, risk, and trust, a relic that turns up when the road grows uncertain. On market days you hear whispers about pricing, as though the feather were a living thing that travels from stall to stall on the backs of caravans. A single Pristine Feather might fetch a couple of silver, depending on the season's mood and the scarcity of other trinkets. It’s not a fortune, yet it's enough to coax a weary trader to part with more than air. I learned this firsthand at Saddlebag Exchange, a narrow shop-front that leans against the old market. There, under the bell that tings when customers come or go, I watched a broker measure the feather against a tin of copper dust and wax-sealed notes, and the feather spoke louder than coins ever could—proof that stories have value in a world that trades in memory and matter. That is the strange gravity of Pristine Feather: it makes the ordinary feel loaded with intention, as if the route you take tomorrow depends on the glint of a single quill. Carry it with you, or trade it, and you are participating in a circle that binds travelers, traders, and guardians into one unfolding narrative. A feather, after all, can be a compass as much as a keepsake. Let it glow in your bag, and the world will keep turning, offering small chances wrapped in a feather-light promise.