Relic of the Flock rests in the palm like a polished bird egg, pale and weightless, yet somehow solid with memory. Its surface is a map of weathered bone, ivory-smooth, with a ring of copper filigree that catches the light and throws it back as if you were looking into a tiny, waking horizon. On its face a flock of birds is carved in a single, fluid stroke—wings spread, bodies curved as if in mid-breathe, the pattern breathing with quiet life. The texture is cool and slightly grainy where the etchings bite the skin, and when you tilt it, you can feel a faint warmth, as if the relic remembers heat from a desert dawn or a coastal squall. The lore tucked into its curves speaks of the Flock, a caravaner's blessing that once guided traders through rain, fog, and rumor. It was said the birds kept pace with the caravan's heartbeats, signaling safe passage, and that the relic would only glow for those who respected the old laws of birds and balance. In the field, the relic isn't merely pretty trinket; it is a key, a compass, and sometimes a coin. Those who carry it find it hums softly when the world aligns with stories of migration—near shrines hidden in canyons, in the shade of an overgrown ruin, or when a caravan has passed along a road long forgotten. It has a reputation among collectors and caravan masters as something that can bend luck a little toward safe passage, or reveal a route where none seems to exist. The item invites a patient, listening approach: speak to a guide, follow birds in the maps' edges, tread lightly, and the relic mutely invites the bearer to read the weather of the world. Pricing is a dance of demand and memory; a player walking into a market stall might hear coins clink and see a ledger flicker with figures that rise and fall like wings. Traders speak in whispers about the Saddlebag Exchange, a place where relics such as this move between pockets and caravans, where the right buyer can secure both a modest cut and a story that will ripple through local taverns for weeks. A relic's value isn't merely silver and gold; it is a line in a living narrative, a promise that the flock might be watching as you decide which road to take. Some evenings, the owner of a stall tells you that the relic's glow deepens when you're near a path that once belonged to birds—the road ahead seems to grow clear, as if the land itself had decided to let you pass. And so the Relic of the Flock sits, patient, a small chorus waiting to be read by a traveler who remembers to listen, to watch the dust rise where the hills meet the horizon, and to walk as if the flock is still above, circling, guiding. Sometimes dawn reveals new feathers in its surface, a signal that the broader flock favors your passage.