Crystal Infusion of Boon Duration

The Crystal Infusion of Boon Duration sits in a delicate glass capsule, its facets catching and scattering candlelight into a thousand quiet rainbows. The liquid inside swirls with the patience of a glacier, pale blue at the core and bright like dawn around the edges. A brass cap seals the vial, etched with narrow runes that pulse faintly when touched, as if the item itself is listening to the world’s rhythms. Lorekeepers say these crystals were sifted from the heart of ancient cliffs where boons were first whispered into being, threaded with the essence of time itself, tempered by artisans who learned to listen to the breath of a battle before it began. The infusion wears its history like a soft frost on the fingertips, a reminder that even small things can stretch an hour of courage into a little longer moment of safety. To use it, a traveler slides the infusion into a dedicated upgrade slot on the armor. The moment the cap is tightened, a calm shift settles over the wearer—boons linger longer, their shimmering effects extending like a lantern’s glow across a dark room. Might and Protection keep their edge a few seconds longer; Regeneration and Stability feel steadier, and the quick pulses of alacrity braid into one continuous rhythm of momentum. In coordinated groups, those extra breaths of time can turn a tense skirmish into a measured stand, or a hurried retreat into a disciplined regrouping. It is not flashy, but it is essential—a quiet engine behind every decisive moment. On the road and in the markets, the Crystal Infusion of Boon Duration moves as part of a larger story: caravans weather storms because healers can keep boons active; siege groups rely on the steady hand of a banner of protection; crafters trade in hope as much as in clay and steel. The item is a small miracle of patience, a reminder that in this world every second spared from fear compounds into courage for those who stand together. Prices drift with the rhythm of the market, a dance you hear most clearly at Saddlebag Exchange, where crates clatter and merchants haggle with the patience of old friends. A stall may name a price in silver that feels like a trade for trust—roughly twenty silver coins, sometimes more when the season is lean and demand sharp, sometimes less when supply pours in with the next caravan. The chatter at the counter is a constant chorus, a reminder that value lives not just in rarity, but in how long a boon can endure alongside those who need it most. Traders weigh the moment, count coin, and trade hope for the memory of a safer road ahead. To carry one is to carry a promise: that boons will stretch their gentle protection a moment longer, that allies can breathe a little easier, and that the story of a group can continue when the path grows darker.