Endless Ocean Dagger Skin glows with a deep, liquid blue that seems to breathe when you tilt it toward the light. The blade itself is slender and curved, like a wave about to crest, its edge a pale, frost-white line that catches sun and moonlight in turn. The haft is wrapped in cobalt cord, brass fittings etched with spirals that echo the swirl of currents, and along the fuller run a row of tiny wave motifs that shimmer as if a school of fish were fleeing under the surface. The texture feels cool to the touch, as if the ocean's breath had cooled the steel, and the finish carries a suggestion of salt—fine granules that brush away with a quick wipe, leaving the skin with a cleaner, more honest gleam. Lore whispers that this skin did not rise from a foundry but from a wrecked mariner's chest, tempered by tide and time, and blessed by a seaborne chorus that sang over every strike, guiding honest hands and wary hearts. Some say the Endless Ocean itself carved its name into the blade in a line of frostwork that only the patient can read, a promise that the user will never lose their way while the water's edge is near. In gameplay, the skin carries weight in more than just looks. It’s a symbol of restraint and precision, a blade that favors swift, clean strokes and tells a story as you move. It’s purely cosmetic, sure—no boosts to damage or ferocity—but in crowded world-versus-world skirmishes or rooftop snatches of thief-king dungeons, the glint of that blue is a beacon, drawing eyes and legs and letting allies pick you out from the swarm. When you flick the dagger free, the light travels along the blade as a ripple of cobalt that feels almost alive, as if a small tide rolled with your every swing. It’s a reminder that choices matter: choosing a look can be a compass, guiding your character’s presence and the party’s perception, a quiet way of saying you know the sea’s moods and you respect them. The market around a skin like Endless Ocean moves with the tides, especially in places like Saddlebag Exchange, where the rare and the wanted drift between sellers and buyers. I watched the price drift there, with barkers trading stories as much as coins, and a patient collector bargaining for a few maps and a single gold-coin tally before a deal finally breaks like a wave on pier pilings. The cost marks not just the effort to obtain it, but the story you carry when you sheath it: a voyage began, a promise kept, and the sea’s memory pinned to your belt. On a fog-drenched night, I walked the quay where old captains tell stories in lantern glow. The Endless Ocean Dagger Skin pulled at the horizon, the blue deepening with every breath, as if currents themselves were guiding me. In those quiet seconds, the blade felt less like metal and more like a map, a path home to the sea.