Proof of a Kill

Proof of a Kill sits in the palm of your hand like a small, stubborn memory. It’s an oval talisman, its surface a quilt of patinated brass and chipped steel, catching light with a quiet, almost reluctant gleam. The center holds a dark shard, obsidian-like and cool to the touch, as if it were pressed from a riverbed that remembers every clash it has witnessed. Around that shard run fine, etched runes—a hunter’s sigil—slender and precise, lines that seem to vibrate when you tilt the badge toward the sun. The back bears the scratch of long use: leather worn smooth by belts and pouches, a thin copper ring through which a frayed cord threads like a memory tethered to the wearer. It’s not flashy; it doesn’t shout its glory. It hums with the weight of a thousand near-misses and a hundred hard-won truths. Lore loves this little object as a stubborn old tale loves a stubborn wind. People whisper that the Proof of a Kill was minted by a venerable hunting order, forged to acknowledge a kill that changed the balance of a frontier fight or a brutal village raid. It’s said to carry a vow rather than a name—the vow to honor a foe whose last stand taught a hunter humility, or to remember a moment when luck and skill braided into one undeniable deed. If you listen closely, you can hear that memory dampened by rain and the crackle of campfire smoke whenever someone touches it. Some collectors insist it’s more than a badge; it’s a key that unlocks a line of stories, a sequence in which a hunter’s past blends with the present work of the world’s living map. In practice, the Proof of a Kill becomes part of a larger, quiet choreography. Carried to outposts or tucked inside a saddlebag, it’s traded, shown, or presented to earn something beyond mere coin: access to a veteran’s study, a chance to join a specialized hunt, or the possibility of a rare, time-limited barter with a craftsman who can translate memory into a tangible edge—an emblem that earns respect as soon as it’s seen. It also slots neatly into the game’s larger economy of keepsakes, where something earned through risk—something that marks a moment you witnessed with your own eyes—can be exchanged for a little more progress, a small boon, or a reminder of what you’ve done and what you still owe to the next encounter. And then there is the market, unpredictable as any battlefield. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, the Proof of a Kill sits among other tokens of conquest, priced by condition, lore, and rumor. A steady trickle of traders keeps the story alive, whispering about late-night bids and near-misses, about fakes that walk the line and real ones that carry more weight than the gold they bring. The current chatter is as much a map as any road: a range that shifts with mood, with who claimed what, and with the stories that accompany every sale. So the Proof of a Kill endures as a small artifact with a big rhetoric—a simple object that binds memory to merit, ceremony to commerce, and the everyday grind of travel to something almost sacred. It’s a piece of the world’s living narrative, worn lightly but felt deeply by those who choose to carry it.