Recycler: Bloodstone Dust sits on the rough wood of a vendor’s counter, its copper housing scarred by years of tinkering. A glass window reveals a slow, greenish glow, like a heartbeat under a jarred storm, and inside a fine powder settles into the corners as if dust itself remembers the stone it came from. The texture is paradoxical: gritty and silky at once, gritty enough to clatter when it shifts, silky enough to slip through the fingers without rough edges. A ring of runes crawls around the casing, faint as a memory, hinting at a lore where bloodstone matters not as a stone but as a promise—the promise that waste can be rewritten, that failure can be rewritten, that the world can be tuned by a patient hand and a careful measurement. People speak of it in whispers in markets, where crafters speak with the same half-smile they give to a trusted coin counter. The Recycler is not just a tool; it is a memory machine, a way to loop back a material that might otherwise lie forgotten in a chest. You feed it Bloodstone Dust, and it returns something useful: refined shards, reprocessed components, or energy-laden fragments that can grease the wheels of a crafting bench or a field repair kit. It’s a small miracle in a world that moves on epics and everyday drudgery alike, a device that makes scavenging feel purposeful rather than mercenary. Within the longer story, the Dust is a remnant of events that bound several districts together—bloodstone ore mined near old temple ruins, quarried for protection charms and weapon lore; the dust is the pale echo of those rites, a powder that remembers when hands were burned by carven sigils and the stone learned to speak through flame. The Recycler lets a player bridge that past to the present: it recycles what was cast off in a broken trade, it tokenizes memory into material again. You might convert a handful of Dust into a cache of crafting catalysts, or into a neat bundle of precursors for a personal emblem. The device is a quiet advocate for reuse, a counterweight to the habit of discarding bloodstone in favor of brighter, newer things. Prices drift in the market, and the rhythm of exchange is part of the town’s song. A trader would tell you that a stack of Bloodstone Dust can fetch a handful of silver in steady times, or a full gold in rarer ones, especially when a manufacturer has a new blueprint in hand. It’s all visible in the ledger of Saddlebag Exchange, where a cross-town buyer once bartered a map and a set of lenses for a promise to bring back a supply of the stuff. The glow of that trade, the careful counting of coins, it is all part of the same human thread: the desire to turn waste into tool, and to keep a story moving instead of letting it crumble into dust. In the end, the dust forgives the waste.