Ghostly Infusion rests in a small, moonlit vial, the glass pale as winter frost and curved like a teardrop caught in time. Inside, a pale mist swirls, coaxed into a slow, patient breath that seems to pulse with a quiet heartbeat. The liquid catches candlelight and splays it into threads of ghost-blue alongside ribbons of silver. The stopper bears sigils that tilt when you blink, as if the bottle itself is listening. The texture is cool to the touch, slightly damp, and the edge of the label shivers with a living script that promises memories and protections more than mere color. It looks as if a whisper could slip from it at any moment, eager to be heard. Lore threads wind around the infusion like ivy running up old stone. It is said to be bottled from the sigh of a spirit who walked between worlds, its essence pressed into glass by shade-scribes long vanished into rumor. The tale is less about conquest and more about keeping a memory intact—the idea that gear can carry more than stat lines, that armor might remember the hands that wore it. Some hold that the infusion binds to metal with a soft, approving glow, a spectral seal that reminds the wearer of every choice made beneath the moon’s pale gaze. In the market chatter and quiet corridors of temples, travelers pass along this story as if it were a lucky charm, a reminder that the world keeps turning even when faces disappear into fog. In practical terms, the Ghostly Infusion is a storyteller on your belt. When slotted into equipment, it casts a gentle, atmospheric aura—visible enough to be noticed in bright daylight, more striking under dusk. The glow isn’t a furnace, but a pulse; the armor seems to breathe with you, catching the eye of comrades and foes alike. Players often speak of it in terms of mood and presence: a little extra character for builds that lean into mystery, a subtle shine that marks you as someone who has walked haunted corridors and emerged, wearing the echoes of those passages as part of your silhouette. It may not swing the odds in a battle by itself, but it complements the world’s storytelling, weaving your journey into the fabric of the region’s ghost-lined histories. In that sense, Ghostly Infusion acts as a bridge—between skin and story, between the present moment and the long, quiet witness of the Veil. The market rumor mill, too, keeps pace with its legend. On mornings at Saddlebag Exchange, traders swear by the infusion’s rarity and by the way a pristine sample can vanish from a shelf as if it were exhaled by a passing wisp. Prices drift with the seasons and the number of haunting events, sometimes traded freely for a handful of gleaming minerals, sometimes bargained over with stories and favors. Sellers weave a soft pitch about authenticity and glow, while buyers weigh lineage and glare—a ritual that makes the purchase feel like a pact, a shared belief in the world’s oldest half-hidden truths. And so the Ghostly Infusion sits at the edge of flame and fog, waiting for the next traveler to carry a little more memory into the day.