Value is relative. Memory is forever. Choose what you carry.
[Crystalline fragments of whisper-metal, precisely cut. Each contains a single memory—someone else's, somewhere else, somewhen else.]
They pulse faintly in your palm. Warm. Curious. Hold one too long and you'll live a moment that isn't yours. A child's first laugh. A lover's last breath. A death you didn't die.
Merchants prefer them because they never lie. The memory is there. Verifiable. Real. Spend a shard and you're spending a piece of someone's life—not yours, but close enough.
Value: One shard feeds a family for a month. Or buys a secret. Or becomes a secret, if you know where to spend it.
Rumor: Some shards contain memories of the dead. Some contain memories of the never-alive. The most valuable contain forgotten things—truths the universe tried to erase.
The Thing collects them.
It's looking for one in particular.
A memory of
her.
Lolth.
Before the burning.
Before the throne.
Before
everything.
[Thin, flexible sheets of hammered whisper-metal. They hum faintly—not words, just presence. Like someone breathing nearby.]
Less valuable than shards. More common. Easier to ignore. Merchants stack them, count them, forget them. They're just money.
But hold one to your ear.
[Whisper.]
"Remember."
That's all. Just that. Just enough to make you ache for something you can't name.
Value: A week's labor. A night's lodging. A weapon that won't sing at you.
Rumor: Fold a whisper-silver sheet a thousand times and it becomes a shard. The memory inside? Whatever you were thinking about when you folded the last fold. Choose carefully.
The Thing doesn't use these.
They're too
quiet.
Too
forgettable.
Like
everything else.
[Pale, flat discs stamped with faces that shift when you're not looking. Your face, sometimes. A stranger's, others.]
Copper-equivalent. Pocket change. Toss one to a beggar and they'll hear something—a laugh, a sigh, a scream—from whoever spent it before you.
They're not valuable.
They're just company.
Value: A loaf of bread. A drink. A moment of not being alone.
Rumor: Collect a thousand identical faces and they'll wake up. The face in the coin will speak to you. Ask questions. Remember things it shouldn't.
The Thing loves these.
It throws them into crowds.
Watchesthe faces shift.
Listens to the
echoes.
[Whisper.]
"Everyone leaves something behind.
Even coins.
Especially coins.
Especially
you."