Moldy Bag

The Moldy Bag rests on the market stall, a sagging burlap sack the size of a forearm, its fabric yellowed with age and stitched with uneven thread. Its seams fray like old rope; inside, a damp heat rises as if the bag holds a memory of rain. Mold splatters the surface in pale green patches, and a faint sour sweetness clings to the air. The texture is rough, almost like dry leather, yet the fibers give with a sigh when you press a finger into it, releasing a dusty scent of grain, mildew, and a rumor of lost inventories. A frayed drawstring quivers when you step closer, and the whole thing seems to breathe with the market’s breath. Looming over the bag, a local legend threads its way through conversations: this sack was once part of a caravan’s private cache, stitched not for display but for survival, to keep fragile wares safe from rain and rot on the long road. Some say it was sewn by a traveling apothecary who used mold as a slow-preserver, others swear it belonged to a hunter who swapped secrets for shelter in a ruined outpost. In any case, the Moldy Bag carries a whiff of history—what it preserves, what it forgets, and what it invites you to claim. In practice, the bag is more than a curious relic. When you cut the knot and tilt it open, a handful of ordinary loot spills into your palm—dusty shards of ore, a chipped tool, perhaps a shard of glass that once reflected a starry night. At its most practical, it’s a compact, reusable container that adventurers stash away between errands, a pocket of space that won’t sit heavy on the belt. But the real charm lies in its potential to become something else: a prompt in a side quest, a clue tucked into a ruined floor, a chance to barter with a traveling trader who values oddities as much as ore. Market life magnifies that potential. You’ll hear whispers about price fluctuations, and the market’s rhythm makes the Moldy Bag feel almost like a character in its own right. In a sunlit corner, Saddlebag Exchange takes note of bags and their stories, weighing whether the mold has preserved value or simply preserved a memory. The vendor eyes the bag, sniffing at the damp, then slides it into a careful stack and offers a neat sum—two silver if it’s light on content, more if the bag arrives bearing a small, unexpected treasure. The exchange is brisk, the coins clink, and the bag moves on to its next owner, already gathering a new story. By night, the Moldy Bag rests again, its surface drying in the lantern glow, while a curious traveler pockets it, perhaps to test its tale, perhaps to use it as a temporary home for found trinkets. Either way, it remains a tangible link between road-weary memory and present-day wanderlust—a humble pouch with a stubborn personality, carrying the weight of what was, what is, and what may yet be traded at Saddlebag Exchange.