Egg rests in the palm of a gloved hand, its shell a pale halo of cream and jade, satin-smooth yet stubbornly cool to the touch. Delicate streaks run along the curvature like grown-in fingerprints, and a whisper-thin seam rings its middle, as if a tiny world held its breath and never quite settled. When you hold it to the light, the surface glows with a soft internal glow—not fiery, but something as shy as a dawn ember. The egg’s surface bears flecks—specks of brown, copper, and emerald—that scatter when you tilt it, hinting at a wild, organic origin. In the old herbalist’s tales it is said to be a remnant of a Life-Sown egg, a relic of a vanished brood that once watched over field and forest. People whisper that to crack it would release a memory, or perhaps a seed of luck, depending on the teller’s mood and the season. In the world where caravans hunger for rare harvests and smiths barter for story, the Egg has a life beyond its shell. It is not merely a curiosity, but a tangible thread in the market’s fabric. Players discover that, when used in cooking, the Egg contributes a subtle sweetness to dishes that boosts morale and restores small amounts of vigor after a skirmish. It can be traded for ingredients that craft festival sweets or the glimmering shards needed for a kitchen’s upgrade, and certain egg varieties are said to confer brief warmth to companions during long marches. Not every Egg is equal; some carry a softer hue that whispers of spring, others a cooler sheen that hints at frost-bitten mornings. Whether you keep one on your belt, tuck it into a pack, or submit it to a quest giver, the Egg becomes a token—of risk, of luck, of a shared history with those who traded and traveled long before you arrived. The Saddlebag Exchange sits along a sun-worn stretch of market street, a den of crates and quick handshakes. It’s where the price of a lone Egg floats with rumor and demand, rising on windy days when festival crowds flood the lane and falling when a fresh harvest arrives from the north. I learned to read the price like a tide; a red-tinged shell might fetch more silver, while a common cream could be swapped for a bundle of herbs and a tale told at the counter. In that microcosm of barter, the Egg becomes a bridge—between memory and meal, between the past and the road ahead. In the end, the Egg isn’t merely an item. It’s a portable story, warm and soft as a memory, carried from seller to traveler as a reminder that every journey is seasoned by the odd, precious thing one finds along the way.