Rampager's Amulet of Coral

Rampager's Amulet of Coral sits heavy in my palm, a ring of reef-gold clasping a living coral centerpiece that seems to pulse with a faint, tidal light. The coral's branches flicker like submerged lightning, pale pinks and ghostly whites braided with minute facets that catch every shop lamp and reflect them back in a slow, patient glow. The band itself is cool to the touch, a brushed texture that feels both ancient and seaworn, etched with spiraling runes that recall currents and the long memory of the deep. It carries a scent of brine and sun-warmed stone, as if it had just been torn from a dead, singing reef and worn on the skin of someone who listened to the sea for years. Lore says it was woven into a pact between reef-wardens and the last caravans of coral-fishers, a charm to keep the wearer fleet and fearless when the tide turns dark. In the heat of battle, Rampager's Amulet of Coral seems to hum with momentum, guiding a champion's hand. In practical terms, it anchors Power, Precision, and Ferocity—the triad that turns a clean strike into an answering gale. A quick flurry of slashes, a precise puncture, and the next hit lands with a studied, almost coral-breaking force. For those who chase damage, the amulet is a quiet mentor, encouraging tempo, rewarding patience, and amplifying the burst that follows a well-timed break bar or a sprinting leap. Worldly hands pass such pieces along as if they were shells—beautiful, useful, and a little dangerous to hold too long. On Mistward docks or in the candle-lit stalls near the Saddlebag Exchange, it becomes a bargaining chip rather than a mere trinket. The going price hovers around a couple of gold, depending on the buyer’s need and the seller’s memory of the reef’s moods; a seasoned trader might sweeten the deal with a trade-in of emerald scales or a story of a rescue at sea. The seller I spoke with slipped the amulet into a leather pouch, whispered that coral sometimes chooses its owner, and warned me that it favors those who respect its hunter’s rhythm more than those who worship its shine. Saddlebag Exchange, with its tidewater glow and the scent of tar and salt, is where this charm’s future is negotiated in earnest, where a promise of better crits can be traded for a tale of a ship’s ghost. Put back on, it sits there like a small reef at the stern of a ship—watchful, ready, and stubbornly alive. It won’t fix every fight, but it reminds you that every strike is part of a larger current, a narrative you’re meant to steer through the water and into the next wave. Some nights I imagine its coral beating like a heart beneath ship's hull, guiding a crew through reefs of danger. When the tide turns and dawn colors the water, the amulet becomes proof that memory can be worn, that gear can be story, and that voyages leave a trace.