Ghostly Infusion sits in a palm-sized vial, its glass pale as frost and etched with runes that look like frostbite sigils. The liquid inside shivers with a soft, silvery glow, as if a whispering mist were caught in a bottle. The cork is wrapped in a ribbon of black wax that leaves a hollow scent of rain and old timber when you pop it free. Hold it up to the light and you can almost see your own breath reflected back at you, as though the bottle itself contains a faint echo of someone who once walked these roads and never fully left. The lore around it speaks in hushed tones about memory bound to medicine, about a reagent brewed at the edge of night when spirits are most honest about what they remember and what they’ve forgotten. In the stories sung by campfires and market stalls, Ghostly Infusion is less a potion than a bridge. It is said to bind residual memories to objects or to a living wearer for a brief moment, granting the user a touch of the world beyond. Some say it came to be during a caravan raid years ago, when a healer traded a night’s vigil with a merchant who had learned to listen to the dead. Others whisper that it was bottled by a ward-keeper who learned to harvest quiet truths from the spaces between footsteps. Whatever the origin, the effect is tangible: a pale glow that lingers around the edges of metal, a hush in the air, and a sense that you are walking not only through place but through memory itself. Gamers who chase its story describe Ghostly Infusion as a practical companion as much as a relic. When applied to equipment or kept close at hand for a run through winding ruins or haunted caverns, it is said to grant a temporary spectral bond—enabling the wearer to sense hidden inscriptions, faint footprints, or veiled passages that would otherwise stay buried. In a longer quest, it can help align a crew’s steps, turning a scattered party into a chorus moving with a shared, almost intangible memory of the way forward. Its uses feel less like a cheat and more like a whispered hint from a map the world almost remembers. The glow it gives off has a practical beauty, a reminder that even steel can listen to the past if you hold it up long enough. Market gossip adds another color to the tale. Ghostly Infusion tends to drift through the hands of travelers and peddlers who know how to read a memory as carefully as a price tag. In one quiet corner of the city, a roving trader offered a bottle to a collector who had come to the Saddlebag Exchange with both pockets and stories lighter than they had hoped. The price was never fixed, swinging with the mood of the crowd and the weight of the rumor about who last saw a wisp of a life in a candle flame. Sometimes a bottle would fetch a single silver, sometimes a token of favor, sometimes a memory traded for a longer, brighter night’s luck. The exchanges are imperfect, but they are honest about what Ghostly Infusion offers: a way to listen to what the world has forgotten and to carry a small remembrance into the next shadowed doorway. And so the Ghostly Infusion moves through the world like a quiet lullaby for the restless, a reminder that even in steel and stone there are echoes worth listening to—and that sometimes, a tiny bottle of pale light is all you need to hear them well enough to keep going.