Recycler: Dragonite rests on the counter, a compact device of burnished brass and obsidian inlay, about the length of a forearm. Its surfaces ripple with dragon-scale etching, every line like a tiny seam cut into a living memory. The texture is cool and slightly gritty, as if the metal remembers every touch it’s ever had, and a segment of glassy core glows a frost-lit blue, threaded with copper filaments that buzz softly when you tilt it toward the light. A strip of tanned hide, scarred from years of travel, forms a strap that lets a traveler carry it across a shoulder like a curious talisman. The look isn’t merely ornamental; lore whispers that dragonite has a memory of its own, a stubborn little diary attached to metal and stone. When items enter the device, the core seems to listen, and the surface seems to shiver with a quiet, almost grateful hum, as if the object’s history is being coaxed into the world once more. In practice, the Recycler: Dragonite is the trusted companion of scavengers, tinkers, and merchants who make a living mending what others discard. You drop your scrap into its front aperture, and the device answers with a measured purr, extracting dragonite shards, small components, and sometimes a catalyst or two from the jumble of hinges, rivets, and cloth. It doesn’t erase a story; it inventories it, saving the most useful fragments for future craftwork. Common scraps yield steady, reliable returns—the kind of predictable drift that keeps a working day moving. When the rarer bits show up, the dragonite core glows brighter, and the device seems to lean closer as if listening to the whispered rumor of a forgotten blueprint. It’s a tool that makes salvage feel almost like storytelling, turning waste into a kit of possibilites rather than a pile of regret. The item’s significance threads through the world like a subtle thread of copper wire in an old lamp. Crafters prize dragonite for its role as a bridge between scrap and refined goods, between what is discarded and what can be renewed. It’s not just about pieces and parts; it’s about recalibrating a life, a village, a workshop’s rhythm after a flood of broken gear. Players and traders alike speak in terms of potential—the possibility of upgrading a beloved helm, repairing a stubborn fuse, or funding a new venture by selling dragonite-rich returns to those who crave efficiency. The Recycler: Dragonite becomes a node in a larger economy of reuse, a quiet advocate for sustainability in a harsh world. Prices drift like a lantern’s glow in a market alley, and Saddlebag Exchange figures into the tale in a very practical, almost human way. A note on a stall screen might read that a batch of Dragonite components is fetching a respectable sum there, attracting collectors who prize the memory-tinged shimmer of dragonite shards. It’s not a fixed bill of goods, but a negotiation woven into daily life: the recycler’s value rises with need, falls with abundance, and travels wherever a wagon or a courier can carry it. In the end, Recycler: Dragonite is less a gadget and more a quiet steward of renewal—an object that keeps the road ahead from becoming a dead end.