Sheet of Rough Paper

Sheet of Rough Paper lies pale and stubborn in the palm, a pale tan that seems almost to glow in lamplight. Its surface is a web of coarse fibers, each thread a stubborn whisper of the plant and rag from which it was born. You can feel the texture catching on your skin, like dry bark rubbed smooth by years of use. The edges are torn, not clean, as if a hurried note was snatched from a larger sheet and folded into a pocket before the ink had time to settle. Its scent is a memory—somewhere between damp cellar and sun-warmed workshop—carrying a trace of ink that never fully dries, a history of scribes, merchants, and wanderers who trusted this stubborn pulp to carry what mattered: names, numbers, and secrets. There’s a rumor about its provenance tucked into old ledgers and whispered in the stalls of smaller markets. It’s not precious parchment, not the kind one frames behind glass, but that very ordinariness lends it a kind of charm. The rough texture insists on honesty: when you press a brush to it, the ink bites quick and honest, leaving a scar of color that won’t wash away with rain or time. In quieter circles, the sheet is said to be a companion to travelers, a trusted surface for quick calculations, a ledger page you can fold into a map, or a warning note that won’t crumble into dust when a caravan hits a muddy road. In the dim glow of a caravanserai, someone once traced a route with an ink that refused to run, and the sheet held that line as if it were carved into stone. That lore—of routes, debts, and fragile truths written on something so ordinary—is what makes the sheet feel alive rather than mere material. In gameplay terms, the Sheet of Rough Paper becomes a small but meaningful tool in the hands of scribes, couriers, and opportunists who still believe that a well-placed word can alter a journey. It’s used to draft quick notes, to sketch a rough map for a reluctant guide, or to seal a bargain with a fold and a seal of wax. Some players collect these sheets to trade them for ink, small quests, or the chance to unlock a hidden line of dialogue with a wandering trader. The sheet’s value is in its versatility, its willingness to bear a message without demanding a grand stage, and its capacity to carry a whisper of a plan long after the moment has passed. Price, as with so many ordinary wonders, is a matter of the moment and the mood of the market. In the back lanes where leather and cloth mingle with the rustle of coin, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with barter and story. A sheet of Rough Paper will fetch a few copper if it’s clean enough to read, a little more if someone notices a legible sketch or a hint of an old watermark. The exchange isn’t stingy with its offers, and yet it isn’t generous for the sake of generosity—it’s a living ledger where the value of a memory is weighed with a careful eye. You leave with a sheet that feels heavier than it looks, heavier with potential than any ledger page you’ve ever carried.