Carrion's Earring of Chrysocola

Carrion's Earring of Chrysocola rests against the collarbone, a slender hook of tarnished silver cradling a teardrop of chrysocola that catches candlelight like a fallen leaf catching rain. The stone is a cool, ocean-hued green with coppery veining, facets catching every glimmer and throwing it back in shy, liquid sparkles. A fine filigree of carrion-bird silhouettes spirals around the bezel, feathers etched with patient, almost legal precision, as if the wearer wears a small story along the bone and skin. The texture is glassy-smooth where the metal meets the stone, and the whole piece carries a faint scent of resin and old leather, of healer’s salves and distant, rusted iron. Legends say it was forged by a scavenger cult that worshiped the quiet, unseen work of death’s keepers, a talisman once worn by the bold scout who walked ahead of a moonlit caravan, listening for the whisper of bones beneath the earth. When the moon falls low, the chrysocola veins glow not with light but with a memory—rain on copper, a trail of footprints in a city that forgot its name. In the world where such trinkets travel, the earring refuses to be mere ornament. Worn by a keen-eyed hunter, it steadies the breath at the edge of a skirmish, letting the wearer keep a measured pace when chaos swirls. For apprentices and veterans alike, that steadiness translates into longer, cleaner exchanges of blows, a steadier hand for applying toxins or stacking bleeds, and a crust of resilience when curses flare at a crucial moment. Some claim the stone drinks in the near-fatal moment and returns a sliver of resolve; others whisper that it lends a touch of luck when a plan begins to unravel. In the hands of a necromancer or lifedancer, it’s said to coax a green ember into flame at just the right time, tipping a delicate balance toward survival. It is not flashy power, but a quiet, credible encouragement—a piece that makes a choice look a little easier, a risk a touch more bearable. Markets later give the earring a different life. Saddlebag Exchange becomes its stage, a braided chorus of voices negotiating fate and fortune around a single, glinting circle. A buyer might test its worth with a smile and a question, a seller shadows their price with a tale—where it came from, who wore it, what it cost them to part with it. The price rhythm is mercurial: silver traded in heaps, rumors traded in whispers, a trade that can swing with the turn of a caravan’s wheel. Some days, a lucky traveler walks away with more coin and a taller story; on other days, the earring changes hands for a horse’s worth or a favor owed. Through all the chatter, the Carrion’s Earring of Chrysocola remains a hinge between memory and moment, a small circle that links wearer, lore, and market into a continuous, glinting thread.