“If it’s got a name, it’s got a story. If it’s got a story, someone bled for it. Best remember that before you touch anything glowing.”
In Everwealth, artifacts are not objects. They are burdens, oaths, punishments, and prayers made manifest. To hold one is to carry the weight of every hand, every soul, every curse that ever touched it before. They are not forged lightly, nor without sacrifice. These are not things you own. They are things you inherit, or that claim you, body and soul. Some walk as weapons of devastation, like The Falling Star, a morningstar of Pyrrhium that builds force with every swing until it smashes like a meteor, yet may cripple its wielder with a single miss. Others masquerade as power and beauty but conceal deadly curses. Take for instance The Witchplate Armor, a ballroom knight’s finery that grants it's user near indestructibility, but conceals briars of toxic Mire-Iron iron that hook into flesh with every strike until its wearer is suddenly impaled in their own splendor after a mighty blow. And some exist, as judgment, like The Radiant Tongue, Saint Edravos’s golden revolver, a sidearm whose bullets toll like churchbells and sear Hell’s flesh, but burn any unworthy hand that dares lift it. Not all relics are for war. Some whisper promises instead. The Brinefather's Promise, a sea-glass ring veined with gold and pearl, grants its wearer the gift of the deep, water-breathing and graceful swimming, but with each use the ocean takes more of the soul until the bearer feels more tide than flesh. Or The Dice of Woesome Wagers, carved from Tuskites' ivory, which gamble with fate itself; Granting fortunes, visions, or ruin in equal measure, their spotted faces a cruel parody of chance. To the people of Everwealth, these artifacts are more than curiosities, they are living myth. To kings, they are symbols of dominion. To guilds, they are prizes worth spilling empires for. To witches and cults, they are proof that the world itself can be bent, so long as one dares pay the toll. And always, to common folk, they are warnings: reminders that every glowing crown, every gilded revolver, every cursed ring, was made from blood, and is hungry for more.