Classes & Loot | My Site

Warband Leader Classes

MF's come in six different flavours, but only one that means anything to the Beasts, and another that means anything to other warbands: "Edible" and "Loot".

Sorceror

You feel that low hum in the air? The taste of ozone and old blood at the back of your throat? That's what they call "Juice," the raw, chaotic filth that holds this world together. Most folk are smart enough to stay away from it. You're not. You've chosen to open your veins to it, to become a living conduit for the madness of The Sink. When you call upon your power, you will feel your teeth ache and your blood burn. It is a terrible, glorious feeling, the sensation of reality itself begging you to rewrite it. Be careful what you wish for. The Sink is a deep and hungry well, and it always gets its due.

Metteura

You know the secret, don't you? That a battlefield isn't a contest of strength; it's a performance. And every performance needs a director. You are the one who commands the stage, the one who knows that the crack of a whip can be louder than any war-cry. You deal in spectacle, in misdirection, in the beautiful, terrible dance of the fight itself. Your power is in the crowd's roar, in the gasp of a warrior who leaps through a ring of fire, in the stunned silence of an enemy who has been so thoroughly outplayed, they've forgotten who the real threat is. You are the show, and the battle does not begin until you say so.

Warlord

Look around this room. See the scarred faces, the broken knuckles, the desperate eyes? These are your people. They are not an army. They are a pack of snarling, half-starved dogs, and you are the one holding the leash. Out there, in the mud and the blood, they will not look to a map or a grand strategy. They will look to you. Your voice will be the only thing they hear over the screaming, your presence the only rock in a tide of chaos. Your strength is not just in the weapon you yourself carry; it is also in knowing the precise, perfect moment to let that leash slip, and unleash your hounds of war upon the throats of your enemies.

Surgeon

You don't see a battle; you see a butcher's shop. A collection of parts, some still working, some ready for the scrap heap. You're not a healer, not really. You are a pragmatist with a bone-saw and a steady hand. You know that life is a resource, and even in the heat of a brawl, nothing should go to waste. The screams of the dying are just a distraction from the important work of harvesting a fresh lung or bolting a new, slightly-used arm onto an old friend. Your art is written in blood and stitches, a grim testament to the fact that in this world, even death is just a temporary inconvenience.

Assassin

You've chosen a quiet path, haven't you? While the others are roaring and charging, you'll be the shadow that clings to the wall, the whisper in the dark. Your trade is not in the grand clash of steel, but in the single, perfect moment. You see the battle differently. You see the loose buckle on the champion's armor, the nervous twitch in the sorcerer's eye, the fraying rope on the drawbridge. Your power is the chill that runs down a man's spine when he realizes he's been alone for just a second too long. They won't see you coming. They'll just feel the cold, and then the silence.

Merchant

You see the battlefield differently than the others. Where they see a chaotic brawl, you see a hostile negotiation. Your weapons are not the axe or the spellbook, but the gilded contract and the impossible choice. You feel the weight of a deal in your gut, the heft of a soul being measured on your scales. You can smell the fear in a warrior's sweat when you offer them a lifetime of riches to betray their comrades, and you can see the flicker of greed in their eyes. Your power is a quiet, terrible thing. It is the art of turning a man's own nature against him, of making him the architect of his own defeat. You don't just fight battles; you own them, and you always make sure someone else pays the price.

Commandments

The stories are lies, the gods are drunks, and everyone dies in a ditch. The trick is to own the ditch.

Every leader worth their salt, from the most devout fanatic to the most pragmatic killer, has a moment. It's the point in a brawl where instinct and training aren't enough, where the only thing that will turn the tide is a single, world-shaking act of will. That's a Commandment. It's more than just a fancy trick; it's the story of your leadership written in blood and thunder on the face of the battlefield. It's the moment you stop fighting the battle and start defining it. When you see a Sorcerer pull a star from the sky, or a Warlord's roar turn a losing fight into a victory, you're not just seeing an ability. You're seeing the single, epic sentence that will be carved on your warband's tombstone—or their throne.

Sorceror Commandment

Star of Ruin

The Sorcerer does not simply summon a rock; they tear a hole in the fabric of reality, pulling forth a jagged, non-Euclidean shard of solidified Sink-filth. This "star" is a corrupted celestial body, a piece of a dead reality that poisons the very ground it touches, its debilitating energy a constant, grim reminder of the abyss that lies beyond the veil.

Warlord Commandment

War Standard of Defiance

This is not just a banner; it is a declaration of existence, a furious argument against the universe's indifference. It is planted in the ground not just as a rallying point, but as an anchor. The aura it projects is the collected, stubborn refusal of every warrior who has ever died under its sigil, a tangible field of defiance that makes lesser spirits quail and lesser men break.

Assassin Commandment

Soul Trap

This is not a physical snare, but a glyph of spiritual hunger. The Assassin scratches the sigil into the earth, creating a localized paradox, a small patch of ground that lies halfway between the physical world and The Sink. The first soul to tread upon it is snared, not by rope or steel, but by their own metaphysical weight, their very essence becoming a heavy, crippling anchor.

Metteura Commandment

The Grand Flourish

This is the Metteura's opening act, the moment the director takes the stage. The crack of the whip is not a simple attack, but a declaration of absolute control. It is a singular, dramatic sound that imposes a new narrative onto the chaos of the battle. For a moment, the Metteura is the only actor that matters, their will a tangible force that both inspires their own cast and violently throws their opponents off their marks.

Surgeon Commandment

Nerve-Stapled Berserker

This is the Surgeon's most desperate and terrible gambit. It is the act of sacrificing a warrior's mind and future for a few moments of spectacular, battlefield-altering violence. The nerve-pylon does not inspire; it overwrites. It erases the soldier and replaces them with a mindless, pain-immune engine of destruction. It is a horrifying but undeniably effective demonstration of the Surgeon's core belief: a living weapon is always more useful than a dying soldier.

Merchant Commandment

Gilded Gift

This is a physical manifestation of a poisoned offer. The Merchant presents an object of undeniable beauty and value amidst the squalor of battle, forcing the opponent into a difficult calculation. Is the potential reward worth the obvious risk? The Commandment is a perfect test of an opponent's character, weighing their greed against their caution. Whether the box contains a bomb or a curse is irrelevant; the true weapon is the moment of hesitation and the impossible choice itself.

Sorceror Commandment

Bound Sink Spawn

This is not a true summoning, but a hasty and blasphemous act of spiritual taxidermy. The Sorcerer reaches into The Sink, snares a lesser, hateful consciousness, and forces it into a temporary vessel of ectoplasmic rage. The resulting Sink-Spawn fights with a desperate, terrible fury, for it knows its time in the physical world is fleeting, a brief and violent holiday from its own personal hell.

Warlord Commandment

War Drum of the Unbroken

The Warlord does not seek to inspire with words, but to rewrite the very rhythm of the battle. The drum's beat is not music; it is a percussive, hypnotic mandate. It overrides the chaotic, fearful heartbeat of the individual warrior and replaces it with a single, unified, and relentless pulse. To fight within its aura is to become a cog in a great and terrible engine of war, your every action perfectly in sync with the will of your commander.

Assassin Commandment

The Gilded Cage

A tribute to the philosophy of Baudriarch, the Gilded Null. The Assassin does not imprison the body, but the concept of the victim. The cage of light is a perfect, beautiful simulation of a prison, and because it is perfect, it is more real than any physical barrier. The victim is not trapped by walls, but by the absolute, unshakeable idea of their own perfect isolation.

Metteura Commandment

Smoke & Mirrors

The ultimate act of misdirection. The Metteura understands that in any performance, the most important element is controlling the audience's gaze. This Commandment is a grand, dazzling, but ultimately meaningless spectacle, created for the sole purpose of drawing the enemy's attention. It is a testament to the Metteura's cynical mastery of perception, a belief that an army's focus is a weapon that can be easily turned against itself.

Surgeon Commandment

Corpse-Gas Cauldron

A masterpiece of psychological and biological warfare. The Surgeon does not just seek to kill the enemy, but to demoralize them by turning their own fallen comrades into a weapon. The Corpse-Gas is a suffocating, corrosive fog, a toxic ghost of the battle's casualties given gaseous form. It is a grim and effective tool of area denial that attacks not just the body, but the very will of an army to fight amidst the foul stench of its own defeat.

Merchant Commandment

The Gilded Contract

The ultimate expression of the Merchant's philosophy - the act of weaponizing the very concept of a deal. The Merchant isolates a single enemy warrior and offers them a choice: the chance to gain everything by sacrificing their loyalty in a single, fleeting moment. The contract is a metaphysical fulcrum, a single point upon which the entire battle can pivot. It matters not whether the warrior accepts or refuses; their will has been tested, their focus has been broken, and the Merchant has already won the engagement.

Sorceror Commandment

The Sink's Embrace

The Sorcerer does not manipulate the battlefield; they invite a piece of The Sink to it. The ground does not turn to mud, but to a greasy, semi-sentient sludge, the congealed despair from the bottom of the cosmic drain. The hands that erupt are not those of the dead, but are the half-formed, grasping appendages of forgotten ideas and failed ambitions, forever seeking to pull the living down into their own forgotten state.

Warlord Commandment

Unbreakable Bastion

The Warlord channels the collective will of their warband, forging it into a single, perfect concept: survival. The resulting pillar of light is not a shield of magic, but a fortress of pure, unyielding resolve. For a brief moment, the warriors within are not protected by a barrier; they are the barrier, their belief so powerful it becomes a tangible, impenetrable wall against the horrors of the world.

Assassin Commandment

Webb of Lies

The Assassin does not sow discord with mere words. They find a single, resonant frequency of doubt within the enemy warband and amplify it until it becomes a crippling, psychic cacophony. The spectral threads are a visible manifestation of this weaponized paranoia, a web that does not bind limbs, but severs the very concept of trust, turning a cohesive warband into a collection of terrified, isolated individuals.

Metteura Commandment

Hall of Mirrors

The Metteura's most profound and dangerous illusion. This is not a simple duplicate, but a philosophical paradox introduced to the battlefield. For a brief time, the concept of a single, unique warrior is erased and replaced by a quantum state of uncertainty. The duplicate is a question posed to the universe: "which of these is real?" It is the ultimate gamble, a performance so convincing that not even the Metteura knows how it will end until the final, fateful moment of revelation.

Surgeon Commandment

The Butcher's Table

This is the Surgeon's grim altar, a mobile and unholy workshop erected amidst the chaos of battle. It is a declaration of intent, a statement that this small patch of ground is now a place of grim science, where the normal rules of life and death are temporarily suspended in favour of a more... practical approach. Here, life is a resource to be preserved through the most brutal and direct means necessary.

Merchant Commandment

Scapegoat

A cruel but brilliant manipulation of battlefield perception. The Merchant understands that the greatest weakness of any army is its own bloodlust. By marking one of their own warriors as a false, easy target, they create an irresistible opportunity that is, in fact, a carefully constructed trap. The Commandment is a test of the opponent's discipline. To take the bait is to surrender control of the battle's narrative to the Merchant. To ignore it is to admit that the Merchant's true plan is and even greater threat.

Sorceror Commandment

Torrent of Filth

The ultimate expression of the Sorcerer's contempt for the natural order. This is not a spell, but an act of pure, cosmic vandalism. The Sorcerer opens a direct, unfiltered conduit to the very bottom of The Sink, unleashing a vulgar and overwhelming deluge of spiritual refuse. It is a tide of pure, chaotic potential that un-makes all it touches, its corrosive properties a testament to the fact that in the face of true chaos, even the most resilient of armours is merely a temporary, flawed concept.

Warlord Commandment

Altar of Carnage

This is a ritual of violent, temporary deification. The Warlord erects the altar not as a plea to a god, but as a challenge. The blood spilled upon it is an offering that awakens the battlefield's own dormant fury. The resulting aura is a feedback loop of violence; the altar draws power from the carnage around it and, in turn, infuses the warriors with a perfect, single-minded rage, turning them into temporary avatars of the battle itself.

Assassin Commandment

The Butcher's Bill

This is the ultimate act of psychological warfare. The Assassin does not simply mark a target; they declare a singular, undeniable truth to the universe: "this one dies next." The spectral skull is not just a marker; it is a manifestation of this new reality. The victim is no longer a warrior fighting a battle; they are a debt to be collected, and every ally of the Assassin becomes a grim and willing bailiff.

Metteura Commandment

The Fiery Hoop

A spectacular and cruel piece of stagecraft. The Fiery Hoop is a challenge, a test of will and prowess presented to all actors on the battlefield. It is a manifestation of the Metteura's core belief that the spectacle of the battle is paramount. Those who pass through the trial are tempered by its flame and become the stars of the show. Those who fail are consumed by it, their fiery demise merely a dramatic, cautionary backdrop for the main performance.

Surgeon Commandment

Marrow Vat / Stitched Abomination

A Surgeon sees the dead not as a tragedy, but as a wasted resource. Their Marrow-Vat is the solution: a bubbling cauldron of battlefield recycling that harvests the fallen, rendering them down into a glowing slurry of pure potential. When enough have been sacrificed to this grim soup, the vat produces a Stitched Abomination. This hulking, mindless patchwork of recycled battlefield is a testament to the Surgeon's horrifying pragmatism. Blacksmiths have a forge. Surgeons have a vat.

Merchant Commandment

Trojan Beast

A truly masterful strategic gambit. The Merchant does not simply summon a monster; they present it as a problem wrapped in a beautiful cage. The opponent must either divert their most valuable resources to deal with a contained but significant threat, or they must allow the Merchant to unleash a powerful new ally onto the board. It is a perfect demonstration of the Merchant's ability to turn a single, powerful asset into two distinct and equally damaging liabilities for their foe.

Items of Legend

Congratulations, you've killed a god and stolen its favourite toy. Try not to choke on it.

So, you've done the impossible. You've faced down a Perpetual in its full, incandescent rage and somehow lived to tell the tale. The good news is, you're now a living legend. The bad news is, the world is full of things that enjoy killing legends. But sometimes, when one of these ancient beings finally falls, it leaves something behind—a piece of its own impossible power, a tangible echo of its existence. These are not mere magic items; they are Items of Legend, artifacts so saturated with raw power that they can change the course of a campaign. They are prizes of immense value and, more often than not, a terrible burden. To carry one is to paint a target on your back for every ambitious fool and jealous rival in The Eightpints.

Item of Legend

Mawgar's Maw

It is said that when the great god Mawgar consumes a mountain range, he occasionally chips a tooth on a particularly stubborn peak. These fallen "teeth"—each one a colossal shard of living rock and raw iron ore—are the most sacred artifacts sought by the Earth Gnashers. The greatest of their Gnaw-Smiths hollow out these god-teeth and fashion them into impossibly heavy, jaw-like greatmauls. To wield the Maw of Mawgar is to carry a piece of your god's own hunger, a weapon that does not just crush, but utterly consumes.

Item of Legend

The Gilded Aegis

This is not merely a shield; it is a vault. Forged by the master artisans of the Gilded Legion, the Gilded Aegis is a masterpiece of defensive engineering. It is crafted from the melted-down Shiners of a thousand victories, its surface a flawless, gleaming testament to the power of pure, unadulterated wealth. It is said that the shield is so dense with the weight of these transactions that it can turn aside not just blades and arrows, but the very whims of fate itself. To carry it is to be protected by the undeniable authority of a paid contract.

Item of Legend

Mire-Drege Mantle

They say the oldest Jacaré-Emboscada are not hunted, but are simply mistaken for small, overgrown islands in the deepest parts of the Mire. This heavy mantle was crafted from the spine-covered hide of one such ancient beast. It is a foul and dripping thing, still covered in the swamp detritus—the broken branches, dead reeds, and murky algae—that served as the creature's camouflage for a thousand years. To wear it is to carry the weight and the stench of the swamp, but it also grants the wearer the same patient, terrifying invisibility as the predator it came from.

Item of Legend

The Landlord's Argument

There are a thousand stories about the original owner of The Eightpints Pub, but they all agree on one thing: he knew how to end a disagreement. This colossal, two-handed club, carved from the single, petrified branch of an ancient Ironwood tree, was his final word in any debate. It is covered in the dents, nicks, and dark stains of a hundred bar-room brawls, each one a testament to a point made and an argument won. It is not a subtle weapon, but it is brutally effective at ensuring that when you make your closing statement, everyone listens.

Item of Legend

The Cackling Jester

They say this is a relic from a long-dead, forgotten chaos god of cosmic jokes. It appears to be a simple, battered rubber chicken, its yellow paint faded and cracked. But its smile is a little too wide, its eyes a little too manic. When squeezed, it doesn't just squeak; it lets out a cackling, reality-bending laugh that echoes with the chaotic energies of The Sink. Most warriors are too terrified to use it, but in a desperate brawl, a bit of madness can be the sharpest blade of all.

Item of Legend

Briefcase of the Gilded Proprietor

This is not the original, of course. To possess the true briefcase of Lord Vincel Rhames would be to hold his very soul. This is a copy, a simulacrum, crafted by a terrified but brilliant artisan of the Gilded Legion who once caught a glimpse of the real thing. It is a simple, stark black briefcase, but it hums with a profound, metaphysical weight. Those who carry it find that their promises and threats take on an undeniable, terrifying authority. The world itself seems to bend to the will of the one who holds it, for all things instinctively recognize and fear the Mandate it represents.

Hot Sauce

They call it a hot sauce. I call it a furious argument between your tongue and your brain, but the punchline is that its neither of those organs that ends up being the ultimate loser.

You'll see them behind the bar, a row of mismatched bottles and corked flasks, each one glowing with a faint, malevolent light. Don't mistake them for simple condiments. These aren't just peppers and vinegar. Each bottle is a potent, alchemical brew, a distilled shot of pure, reckless potential. There's a sauce in there made from the fury of a Sabre-Tusk, another that holds the chilling silence of the grave, and one that tastes of pure, chaotic luck. To drink one is to make a dangerous bargain, a toast to a temporary, glorious, and almost certainly painful new reality. The choice is yours. Drink deep, and hope you don't explode.

Hot Sauce

Iron Gut Hot Sauce

Brewed by the Sindarkyn in their volcanic forges, this thick, gritty sauce is less a condiment and more a geological event. It's made from powdered obsidian, magma-ripened peppers, and a healthy dose of pure, liquid stubbornness. It tastes like swallowing a whetstone. Those who can keep it down find their insides coated with a temporary layer of rock and iron, making them as tough as the mountains themselves.

Hot Sauce

Cogwork Precision Oil

This is not a drink for the living, but for the machine. "Brewed" by the master alchemists of the Alka-Haulers, this so-called "hot sauce" is actually a complex, alchemical lubricant. It's a shimmering, silver liquid with a clean, metallic smell, served in a perfectly calibrated glass vial. When applied to the joints of a suit of armour or the mechanism of a Cogwork weapon, it allows the machine to operate with a terrifying, supernatural precision, momentarily transcending the normal limits of its design.

Hot Sauce

Grave Chill Concoction

Brewed by the sorrowful Cask-Brethren, this is not a drink for the living. It's a cold, viscous, and unnervingly smooth liquid, distilled from the essence of pure regret and the dust of ancient tombstones. It has a faint, sweet smell of old paper and dried flowers. To drink it is to swallow a piece of the grave itself, imbuing the drinker with the chilling, terrifying presence of the dead. For a few precious moments, you don't just feel like a ghost; you are one.

Hot Sauce

Liquid Fury

Brewed by the shamanistic Marrow Gnashers, this sauce is not made, but hunted. Its primary ingredient is the adrenal gland of a Sabre-Tusk Beast, harvested at the very peak of its battle rage. The gland is pulped and mixed with a cocktail of potent, mind-altering Savannah herbs. The resulting concoction is a thick, blood-red paste that tastes of raw meat and pure, undiluted fury. To consume it is to borrow the beast's rage, sacrificing all thought for a few moments of perfect, savage clarity.

Sinkstone Bling

It's the prettiest piece of garbage you'll ever find. Just remember that it's still garbage.

Every now and then, a piece of The Sink's cosmic filth gets stuck in The Drain and solidifies. It falls through reality and lands in our world, still humming with a strange, dissonant energy. This is Sinkstone Bling. It's not like the trinkets you buy from a merchant; these things have a mind of their own. A ring that lets you cheat fate, boots that walk on shadows, an amulet that screams with the fury of a forgotten god. When you find one, you'll feel its power calling to you, a cold, greasy promise of a short and glorious life. Be careful what you pick up. Some treasures are heavier than they look.

Singstone Bling

Ring of the Scoundrel

This simple, unassuming band is carved from a single, solidified piece of pure, distilled abyss matter from The Sink. It is cool to the touch and seems to drink the light from the room. It is said to have been worn by a legendary gambler in the lost city of Al'Sarab, a man who never lost a hand. The ring does not guarantee victory, but it whispers probabilities to its wearer, allowing them to see the one, desperate, million-to-one shot and turn it into a sure thing.

Sinkstone Bling

Flask of The Sink

Not all Sinkstone is solid. This small, unassuming flask is crafted from a single, unholy geode that was found to be still-liquid at its core. It is sealed with a living, screaming cork that must be wrestled open. To drink from it is to take the ultimate gamble, to invite the pure, unfiltered, and maddening chaos of the cosmic drain directly into your soul. The results are... unpredictable.

Sinkstone Bling

Heart of the Forge

This is not a piece of jewellery, but a living, smouldering ember of a Sindarkyn's soul, encased in a cage of obsidian and iron. It is a relic taken from the chest of a legendary Sindarkyn champion who held a pass for three days and three nights against an unending tide of greenskins. The ember still burns with his final, defiant rage. To carry it is to be imbued with that same unstoppable fury, a fire that burns brightest in the face of certain death.

Sinkstone Bling

The Shepherd's Medallion

This is not a holy symbol, but a grim reminder. The medallion is a heavy, cast-iron disc bearing the simple, stark image of a shepherd's crook. It is cool to the touch, and in moments of great stress, it is said to whisper the final, furious words of The Shepherd Grimm's famous verdict. It is a focus for the righteous, a conduit for the fury that comes when a flock is threatened. To wear it is to declare that you are the shepherd, and the tyranny of evil men will not be suffered to stand.

Exploding Potions

"A fine way to solve a problem from a distance, assuming the problem isn't that you've just dropped it on your own foot."

A sword is an honest weapon. You know what it does, and you see it coming. A potion is something else entirely. It's a secret, a story, a moment of pure, bottled chaos waiting for you to pull the cork. You'll see them on the alchemist's shelf, each one a different promise. One might hold the fury of a trapped ghost, another the filth of the swamp, a third the blinding light of a fallen star. When you hold one in your hand, you can feel the unstable power sloshing within, a pocket full of trouble. To throw one is to rewrite the battlefield, a single, shattering moment that can turn a desperate defeat into a glorious, explosive victory.

Exploding Potion

Null Flask

The Alka-Haulers, in their infinite, logical wisdom, decided that magic, or "Juice," was simply a problem to be solved. The Null-Flask is their answer. It's a beautifully crafted container filled with a fine, silver dust that doesn't explode, but implodes. It creates a zone of absolute, unnerving silence where magic simply ceases to exist. To a Sorcerer, it is the most terrifying weapon imaginable: a brief, horrifying glimpse into a world without their power.

Exploding Potion

Sludge Pot

Some alchemists try to replicate the power of the gods. Others are content to replicate a puddle of greasy, grasping filth from the bottom of The Sink. That's the Sludge-Pot. It shatters to create a spreading pool of thick, black, oily sludge, complete with half-formed, spectral hands that reach up to grab at the ankles of anyone foolish enough to step in it. It's not the deadliest trap, but it's certainly one of the most demoralizing.

Exploding Potion

Primal Roar Flask

The Marrow Gnashers believe true strength comes from the heart of the beast. This crude horn-flask is that philosophy, weaponized. It contains the distilled, furious essence of a Sabre-Tusk's roar. It doesn't harm the body; it assaults the mind. Anyone caught in its blast is filled with a sudden, uncontrollable, and deeply unhelpful wave of pure, bestial rage, forcing them to attack whatever is nearest, be it friend or foe. A perfect tool for turning a disciplined shield wall into a chaotic, self-destructive brawl.

Exploding Potion

Scrap Melt Bomb

A masterpiece of the Scrap-Tek Horde's particular brand of violent, chemical malpractice. This is not a subtle weapon. It is a rusty can filled with a slurry of corrosive agents and hooked up to a volatile power cell. When it ruptures, it unleashes a wave of fizzing, super-heated liquid that doesn't just burn; it dissolves. It turns sturdy iron plate into brittle rust and hardened leather into foul-smelling goo. It is the ultimate expression of the Horde's belief that the other fellow's armour is just a temporary inconvenience.

Items of Myth

There are two kinds of people who own a Mythical Item: the one who just found it, and the one who's about to be murdered for it. Both, the same.

Every now and then, the noise in this pub just... stops. A warband will walk in, battered and bloody, but one of them will be carrying something that makes the whole room hold its breath. It’s not a magic sword or a bag of Shiners. It’s more than a legend. An object that has been whispered about in stories for a thousand years. These are the Mythical Items. You don’t buy them from a merchant, and you don’t craft them on a table. They are singular things—the Neverending Pint, the Silent Steep—that have a story of their own. To hold one is to carry the weight of all its previous owners, and to become the target of every ambitious soul who wants to write their next chapter.

Item of Myth

The Neverending Pint

No one knows who brewed the first drop, nor who forged the glass. The Neverending Pint is a legend, a myth, the ultimate quest for every thirsty soul in the land. It is not merely a mug that magically refills; it is a direct tap into a forgotten, primordial god-head of pure, unadulterated refreshment. The ale it contains is said to taste of victory, of sorrow, of every story ever told in every tavern since the beginning of time. To drink from it is to drink from the very soul of the world. It is a heavy burden to carry, for it is sought by all, and its owner will never know a moment's peace. But they will also never, ever go thirsty. The myth goes like this: even if the pint glass shatters, it remains filled to the brim.

Item of Myth

The Silent Steep

In the highest, most secluded mountain valleys, tended by the silent masters of the Lantern-Clans, grows a single, ancient tea bush. It is said to have been planted at the dawn of the world, and it blooms only once a century under the light of a specific, unseen star. The leaves are not plucked, but are gathered only when they fall of their own accord. When these leaves are steeped in pure, snow-melt water, they create the legendary "Silent Steep." To drink it is not an act of boisterous celebration, but of profound, inner peace. The tea does not just heal the body; it calms the mind, washes away the memory of old wounds, and grants a moment of perfect, untroubled clarity.