Dragon's Scale catches the light like a living emerald, a single plate the color of burnished copper, edged in serrations that betray its dragonbone origin. The surface is smooth yet stubbornly irregular, a mosaic of tiny plates that shift under your gaze, as if a small fire still simmers within. When you run a finger over it, the scale feels cool and dry in places, warm and almost oily in others, a paradox you can't quite pin down. You can almost hear a hiss in the quiet when you tilt it toward a lamp, as if a memory of flame tries to escape. Its lore connections are whispered in markets and campfires alike: this is the kind of relic a dragon would shed after a siege, a shield of its own hide that remembers heat, roar, and the sky where it once circled. In the field, people carry Dragon's Scale tucked in pouches or wax-sealed, to guard its temper. Crafters prize it because it refuses to crack under pressure, and legends insist it lends some dragon resilience to what it touches. A smith might grind a scale into a powder and fold it into hardened resin, or fuse a fragment with enchanted metal to temper a blade so that it holds its edge even when the campfire embers are low and the air tastes of ash. In practical terms, this isn't mere ornament: it unlocks a path to higher-tier gear, a rung on the ladder that lets a battle-hardened siege squad swap out bronze for something that can weather a dragon's breath without surrendering. Market chatter echoes through caravans and rain-slick streets: a Dragon's Scale can be pricey, but the value isn't only in utility. It's a talisman your crew will trade stories for, a symbol that you wandered into the volcano's own memory and came back with a fragment intact. If you stroll past the Saddlebag Exchange and ask for a price, you'll hear numbers that wobble with the tides—often quoted as a handful of silver, sometimes a few gold for the steadier sellers—depending on how fresh the rumor is and how many scavengers have counted the scales since dawn. The exchange isn't just a ledger; it's a crossroads where legends meet ledger lines, and a scale's price travels as a story does, from mouth to mouth, from hand to hand. The scale is more than loot; it’s a hinge in a larger story, a reminder that every creased ridge on the surface once bore the heat of a dragon's heart. When you cradle it, you aren't just handling a rare material—you’re holding a memory of a world where flame could govern fate, and where a single shard of dragon skin could set a new quest in motion for those willing to listen to its quiet, embered sigh. Some nights, the scale hums faintly when you lay hands near it, as if the dragon watches from a throne. For those who collect such relics, a purchase is a vow.