Miner's Sack lies heavier in the hand than its size promises, a rough burlap teat of a thing, with frayed edges that remember every tool it’s seen. Its fabric is stitched with care, a lattice of coarse threads that catch the light in a dull, mineral sheen. A weathered leather strap runs along one side, split and dark at the hinge where the sack buckles shut, and the drawstring—twisted from old boots or a ship’s rope, depending on who you ask—jingles faintly when you walk. The exterior is speckled with dust and faint mineral blotches, like the bag spent a season in a shaft where torchlight burned orange and the air tasted of iron. If you press your ear to the fabric, you might hear the mountain’s faint, patient breathing—a whisper of the ore veins, a memory of shoring, a hint of the long labor that fills its seams. There’s a quiet lore to it, too. These sacks were once the working memory of mines deep beneath the earth, handed from journeyman to apprentice as surely as a pick or hammer. The miners kept their finds in them not for show but for traveling light: a few bars of tin, a handful of coal dust, a sample of quartz that shone like a winter star when the torchlight struck it right. They carried the sacks out when the shift ended, their backs bending with the day’s count, the sacks aging with stories—the time a seam split and a rescue crew came, the moment a rescue pick struck true and the bag held its breath as a stubborn ore nugget slid into the light. In markets above, the sack’s reputation grew: not only as a practical vessel but as a symbol of measured labor, of returning with what the earth had kept for you. In the game-world, that practical memory translates into more than nostalgia. The Miner’s Sack is a portable companion for anyone who follows the road into stone and mineral: a discreet, sturdy container that makes the act of gathering feel like a story in progress rather than a grind. You fill it with ore, you trade it with a vendor, you haul it across the busy lanes of the city that thrives on the exchange of goods and tales. Its presence invites a deeper rhythm—you aren’t just collecting; you’re carrying a fragment of a mine’s life to the surface, weighing that lifework against the copper you’ll swap for a meal, the spark of a new task, the next piece of a larger purpose. And then there’s the market, where the world’s appetite for ore meets the world’s memory of labor. The Saddlebag Exchange is the name that keeps echoing through the crates and carts: a place where traders, collectors, and storytellers barter the value of what the earth has yielded, where a Miner’s Sack might fetch a modest price, or a brisk trade during a rush of mining season can push it higher. Prices drift with ore flow, with demand for samples, with luck—the way a sack bought in the quiet of dawn can fill with metallic whispers by dusk. You purchase one not for its fabric alone, but for the threads it ties you to—your own small, portable chapter in the long, patient story of the mountains.