Dragon's Wing

Dragon's Wing unfurls across the back like a living shadow: a curved panel of obsidian-black metal, feathered in relief with copper sigils that catch the light as you move. The surface is satin-smooth, cool to the touch but insistent with a whisper of warmth along the inner curve, as if the creature it once belonged to still breathes in the wearer’s shadow. The wingspan is modest, yet the silhouette it casts is strong enough to suggest a dragon’s caution and a hunter’s pride. Each feather is a thread of craftsmanship, fine as a filigree, and the edges are razor-thin, designed to glide past the fabric of a cloak without snagging, without fanfare—just a quiet, confident presence that makes people lean in and study the detail. When dusk settles or the torchlight pools in a camp outside a ruined keep, the Wing’s copper runes begin to glow faintly, tracing a map of stories across the leather and cloth of the wearer’s gear, as if the wing itself is painting a voyage you’ve yet to undertake. Lore, of course, threads through the moment you approach it. They say the Wing is a relic torn from a dragon that fought a siege long before most caravans learned to tell dawn from dust. Some whisper that the wing was shed not in defeat but in mercy, a bridge of ash and ember cast toward mercy’s light, and that the first scavengers who dared to claim it learned to read the dragon’s breath in the patterns of the sigils. Since then, it has drifted through hands like a passport—carried by dragon-hunters, scholars of scale and flame, and travelers who chase omens more than coordinates. The Wing’s power, if you want to call it that, is not about raw force; it’s about the aura you carry into a room where a merchant’s eyes skim over the crowd, about the way it marks a moment when a person chooses to wear a memory as armor. In practice, the Dragon's Wing becomes part of a larger story when the road gets crowded and the market hums with trade. You’ll hear it spoken of in the chatter of inns and at the edge of a roadside camp, where merchants haggle over how a Wing fits in a set, how it might pair with a current harvest of jade or a salvaged relic from an earlier saga. The narrative of value pulls it toward the Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling stall-line where traders lay out their wares in a mosaic of cloth and metal. There, the Wing is priced not only by weight or a list of enchantments but by the tale a buyer can carry away: a gold piece won, a barter for a rare crafting loom, a cluster of salvaged dragonscales traded for a path through a dangerous pass. Some go away with it for a handful of gold and a promise to return with a story, others in exchange for a map to a forgotten ruin or a memory of a night when rain tasted like iron. Wearing Dragon's Wing, you don’t just wear an item; you wear a fragment of the dragon’s history, a reminder that journeys are not only about where you’re headed but what you’re willing to carry along—the wind, the warmth, the faint glow of runes and a memory of wings that once opened to the world and now rest, serene, on your back.