Ghostly Infusion

Ghostly Infusion rests on a worn trader’s counter, a slender vial of milky-blue glass sealed with a dried wax seal bearing a faint sigil. Inside, a pale, sinuous mist coils like a captured breath, curling in lazy loops that flicker with a cold, inner light. The liquid glass catches the candle’s flame and throws faint, icy reflections across the wood, as if a frost-line had drawn itself across the room. The runes etched along the glass catch the light, throwing small wavering sigils onto your knuckles as you cradle it. The texture is impossibly smooth at the rim, yet cool to the touch, a reminder that this thing remembers long nights and longer marches. lore keeps whispering that this infusion was born from a pact with a guardian spirit, a memory refused to fade, pressed into glass in the quiet hours when the market stalls sleep and the world holds its breath. To hold it is to feel a shiver you can’t quite place, a sense that time has thinned around the edges of your armor. In hands and pockets alike, Ghostly Infusion seems to hum with a soft, spectral cadence. Slotted into the proper infusion slot, it does more than glimmer; it threads through the fabric of a wearer’s presence, granting a faint ethereal aura that makes you seem as if you walk a step between two worlds. Warriors who crave a reminder of what lies just beyond the visible seam learn to rely on it, for it does not scream with power, yet it steadies the hand and steadies the gaze. It is said to heighten awareness of fleeting shadows, and to sharpen a hunter’s sense for dangers that hide in the ordinary glare of a sunlit path. In practice, Ghostly Infusion is a quiet partner: it buffs your sense of timing in encounters, nudges you toward safer routes during night patrols, and lends a subtle, haunting beauty to your gear when the hearthlights glow low in crowded camps. The story of its price is never far from a traveler’s lips, and it often winds its way through the market lanes that define these crossroads days. I learned of its value at Saddlebag Exchange, a compact hive of crates and whispers where traders barter under a canopy of tarps and lanterns. The stallkeeper, a weathered soul with careful hands, spoke in low, even tones about supply and demand—their fingers tracing the sigils on the vial as if to confirm a blessing. “Rare enough to matter,” they said, “common enough to carry you through a voyage or a vigil.” The coin of the realm changes hands there with a cadence you can almost hear in the clink of glass—the sort of price that makes sense to someone who plans to roam at dusk and into dawn, who wants a reminder that the living and the lingering share this road. Ghostly Infusion remains more than a mere accessory; it is a thread in the wider tapestry of the world, a reminder that memory and magic can ride together on a single breath. It invites you to walk with a companion you can’t quite see, to honor the quiet courage of those long gone, and to remember that even in the heat of battle, something patient and pale watches over you.