Swim-Speed Infusion +20

Swim-Speed Infusion +20 sits in a slender vial of sea-green glass, the liquid inside shifting with a quiet tide as if held in a heartbeat. The bottle is small but sturdy, the cork sealed with a ribbon of wax that glints like a mermaid’s scale when light catches it. On the label, a curling script threads through the image of a wave, reading Swim-Speed Infusion +20, a promise and a puzzle rolled into one. The texture of the glass is cool to the touch, a whisper of brine against skin, and when you tilt it, the liquid catches the light and seems to pull the air around the stopper into a tiny current, as if a portion of the sea had decided to pause and let you look. There’s a story in that bottle that goes beyond its chemistry. Some say it’s the work of Tidecarvers, artisans who learned to braid currents into glass and bottle them with patient hands. Others whisper of crewmen who swore they could hear the soft laugh of a dolphin when the wax was pressed, a reminder that this infusion carries not just velocity but a favor from the water itself. The infusion’s glow is pale, almost bone-white at the center, with hints of kelp-green tracing the edges—like a shoreline seen through a fogged porthole. In campaigns and quests, those small, shimmering flecks feel like a tide turning in your favor, an object that makes the impossible a little more possible. In practice, the infusion is a practical ally, not a vanity. It slots into equipment to grant enhanced swim speed, a boon that matters most when deep currents push you toward wrecks and coral mazes. For divers and treasure hunters, it can mean the difference between a sprint through a narrow tunnel and a swallowed chance at a hard-won chest. It lets you thread between barnacle-banded pillars, outpace riptides flung by storm-tossed fate, and map routes that would otherwise demand hours of patience. The moment you activate it, the world feels a fraction more navigable: the water parts just enough to reveal a shortcut, the distance to a sunken lantern slips into reach, the edge of a verdict between risk and reward sharpens. It’s a small magic, but in a world of currents and cold, that kind of magic saves days, if not lives. When stories of prices drift through harbor markets, Saddlebag Exchange often becomes a chapter of their own. I’ve watched a quiet, sun-worn seller roll a few of these into a stretch of twine and lay them out beside maps of tidal routes, the scent of brine thick in the air as buyers haggle. They never pretend it’s cheap—not when the sea keeps such favors close to its chest—but the smiles around the stall say the infusion is worth the coin. A handful of silver, perhaps a touch more, and you’re granted a passport to follow the currents farther than you could alone. So this is what it becomes: a small vial of ocean, a token of trust from the water itself, and a companion for anyone who dreams of crossing a map by currents instead of land. It isn’t just speed—it’s an invitation to ride the next wave with intention, to write the next line of a maritime story that won’t end at the shore.