Miner’s Bag sits on the edge of a wooden bench, its canvas a murky oatmeal shade streaked with coal dust. The texture is coarse and stubborn, like a stubborn neighbor who never leaves the mine. Copper rivets pin the corners; a leather strap runs from the top, worn smooth by years of bouncing against belt loops and wagon rails. The brass clasp bears a simple pickaxe emblem, dulled by polishing and rain. When you tilt it just so, the mouth yawns open, revealing a lining of grease-dark cloth and the faint scent of mineral and oil. It feels older than some guilds, older than most merchants remember, and yet it carries a quiet, practical dignity—as if it has learned the weight of the world without saying a word. Local legend ties the bag to the old tunnel-breaker who refused to leave his crew, stitching one more pocket before the night collapse. They say the bag’s seams were blessed to keep heavy ore from bruising delicate items, and that the more you fill it, the more carefully it seems to protect the contents. In the small hours a miner might swear the bag hums with a slow, measured heartbeat, a reminder that the search for metal—for something hardened and true—never truly ends. In the world, a miner’s bag is not just a prop; it is a portable workshop. Adventurers stash gleaming ore, precious geodes, or the scattered trinkets they pick up along the way. A seasoned prospector uses it to keep tools close at hand—spoon for dusting crystals, a folded map, a spare lamp—without lugging a whole pack. It makes exploration feel plausible: you chase a vein, you gather a sample, you retreat with a pocketful of evidence rather than a chest full of guilt. Its capacity is modest, but the bag’s real virtue is in how quickly it lets you pivot from harvest to haggling, from vein to market, without losing your stride. Its simple design is a nod to the road-worn practicality of the diggers who taught the land to yield what it keeps buried. On market days the path to the Saddlebag Exchange is crowded with stories as much as bags. A trader lifts a hand, nods toward the throng, and in that gesture you read the economy of the frontier: a miner’s bag with a frosted clasp is worth a few copper coins when fresh, and a well-worn one—threads tight, strap softened—will fetch a small silver or, with a little luck, a glimmer of gold if its pockets still hold their shape. The Exchange isn’t just about prices; it’s where rumors of new mining routes, fresh geode finds, and small triumphs travel faster than ore carts. So the Miner’s Bag remains more than leather and thread; it is a compact ledger of the mine’s memory, a quiet partner for the traveler who trusts that every haul can begin with a single well-packed seam.