Speakers Propaganda

The Speakers Propaganda rests in the palm, a compact brass rectangle wrapped in faded red cloth, its surface etched with tiny sigils that resemble mouths waiting to speak. Years of handling have softening the edges, and a thin lacquer cracks like dry clay. When you tilt it toward the light, a speckled sheen hints at the stories it has carried from the faces of passersby. A strip of cloth, worn to a fray, is wrapped around the center, like a bandage over a wound that won’t close. The texture is cold and smooth, with a coppery tang on the tongue; when you hold it to your ear, the surface hums, as if the object remembers every loud argument spoken nearby. That hum isn’t trickery; it’s the device’s purpose. Built by archivists who traded velvet speeches for iron fact, the Propaganda was meant to amplify a voice and stitch a chorus from scattered rumors. Lore ties it to a vanished orator who walked the world with whispers, turning rumors into sparks that could ignite a crowd without a single loud word. In markets and shadowy backrooms, the Propaganda is both utility and symbol, a tool to shape perception as deftly as steering a skiff through flood. In practical terms, it acts as a compact amplifier, a relay that can be held up and angled toward a group to project a speaker’s voice with clarity, even amid clatter. It is not a weapon, strictly speaking, but its effect matters—an invitation to listen, a way to thread voices into a shared narrative, or, if you’re unscrupulous, a means to drown dissent in a rising tide of sentiment. Players use it for ceremonial purposes, to tell a tale before a fight, or to rally a small militia with a careful cadence. Its uses feel like theater that has wandered from the page into the world, always ready to remind a listener that loudness can be an art as much as a weapon. Prices drift in markets like weather, and a fair morning can bring a sigh of gold for a Speakers Propaganda while a stormy day leaves it gathering dust on a saddlebag. I’ve watched a traveler barter with the Saddlebag Exchange, a trusted hand at the edge of canvas tents, where coin and trinket pass in a brisk, almost ritual cadence. The vendor’s eyes track the device’s hum, and in that moment the Propaganda ceases to be a mere object and becomes a thread in a larger story, the way a voice can reverberate through a crowded world. Sometimes, when the square clears and the vendor slips out the coin, a rumor rises from the brass, not spoken aloud but felt in the gut, a reminder that power travels on frequencies as much as feet. The Propaganda invites trust or suspicion in equal measure, leaving a mark on the memory of a crowd long after the voice has faded. In the quiet afterward, the world leans closer, listening for the next truth to arrive.