The Bag of Shimmering Energy sits on a weathered market table, a compact satchel whose fabric seems woven from collapsed starlight. Its surface shifts with every tilt, blue-green iridescence deepening into violet in the shadow, like a mineral vein lit from within. The threads along its seams glimmer as if tipped with frost, and the small brass clasp catches the light with a patient, almost curious gleam. Touching it is like brushing a cool breeze; the bag bears a texture almost waxed parchment over a smooth river stone—cool and surprisingly unyielding. Inside, motes of light swirl, and a soft, steady thrum can be heard if you press your ear close enough. Lore whispers that this is no ordinary satchel but a vessel for a fragment of a long-remembered sun, a relic that drifts between caravan fires and temple markets, humming softly whenever the world grows tepid. I watched it pass from hand to hand as dawn spread its pale gold across the stalls. A tinkerer described how she filled it with the bag’s tremoring glow before the night markets opened, so her lanterns would not falter as the alleys grew crowded. A guard captain spoke of how a single pulse from the bag could illuminate a retreating gate, turning a rout into a retreat. A healer in a linen robe swore the energy within could thread a healing weave through a brittle shield, lending a moment of breath to those pinned beneath a skirmish. It felt less like a thing and more like a memory kept in motion, the kind of artifact a city might trade for a new dawn. In practice, the bag is treated as a portable reservoir of light and purpose. When opened, the shimmering motes spill out in a controlled flourish, and the user can draw from them to power momentary effects—a burst to resume a stalled device, a spark to rekindle a faltering beacon, or a precise pulse in the middle of a siege to reveal hidden routes through the rubble. Players speak of the bag’s energy as if it were a character’s breath—never wasted, always returning in small, reliable drafts. It stitches together moments: a hurried rescue in a rain-slick plaza, a caravan’s vigil along a treacherous pass, a camp that wakes to the first true glow of morning. The market eye cannot ignore the economics of such a thing, and here Saddlebag Exchange enters the tale as a quiet chorus of barter and rumor. Prices drift with the tides of demand—some days a bag fetches a handful of luminous ore and a scroll of trade-lore; other days a buyer offers a neat bundle of silver and a pledge for future deliveries. The shopkeepers I spoke with framed the Bag of Shimmering Energy less as a mere commodity and more as a promise: a compact that, in the right hands, can turn a tense moment into a chance to stand a little taller, to push a village toward dawn or to keep a traveler moving when the world seems to hold its breath. So it travels, this bag, tucked into satchels and belts, carried through markets and ruins alike. It is a quiet beacon of possibility, a pocketful of star-dust that reminds us, again and again, that energy—like stories—prefers to move when someone chooses to carry it forward.