Caw

Caw is a tiny raven carved in patina-bronze and inky resin, perched on a lacquered strip of oak that fits neatly in the palm. Its feathers are a mosaic of micro-lines, each plume catching the light with a slow, reluctant gleam, as if the bird itself were remembering a storm. The beak, silvered at the tip, opens to reveal a minute iron whistle that emits a crisp, breathy 'caw' when you wind a hidden cog behind the back. The eyes are little obsidian beads that seem to watch you, following every gesture with a patient, amused tilt. It feels weighty enough to last, light enough to forget, and the texture—cool bronze with satin-black lacquer—makes it seem almost alive in the corner of your hand. There is a lore to it, too: etched along the base are runes that whisper of a Raven Choir once rumored to haunt forgotten mariners' trade routes, a tradition said to bind memory to metal. If you rub the back of its head, the runes glow faintly and the caw grows deeper, as though the raven is listening for stories rather than wind. In the gameworld it travels with you as more than ornament. Some say a Caw awakens in safe places, guiding you toward concealed caches or marking a path through tangled terrain. Others claim it answers mere questions with a silvery chirp—the kind of rumor that makes a campfire lean in closer. When you equip Caw, a faint rhythm travels up your sleeve, a heartbeat tuned to the bird’s own pulse. In combat, the toy becomes a stealth companion: not a weapon, but a sensor and a morale cue. A quick trigger of its whistle can lure a stray sentinel away from a vulnerable flank, and the caw that follows announces the approach of a hidden doorway, a doorway that yields cloth map fragments, or a long-choked chest that remembers old explorers’ names. It is not a miracle, but it is the kind of small aid that changes the mood of a night run through a gilded, mercantile world. I found Caw at Saddlebag Exchange, tucked between a pistachio-tinted journal and a jar of dried starflowers. The merchant’s eyes glinted, and he hinted that the relic was both common and coveted, priced around two silver if you hustled the right nods and trade. It’s surprising how such a compact thing can tilt the odds. A loyal keeper at the edge of town might tell you to guard it, to wind it only when the air is thin and you need a sign—because in a world where loyalties shift with the tide, a small crow can carry a memory farther than any map. So I kept watch for its signal, listening for the click of its little whistle when a crossroads opened before me. The caw rang again as night fell, and the market of stories swelled around us—the kind that teaches you to read the wind and to trust that small, quiet things remember.