Your Satchel

A short scroll of pale vellum tied with a green cord. The script glows faintly on first uncurling; the glow fades when the scroll is read.

A scroll of fine vellum sealed in blue wax, the script in silvered ink. The seal-mark is the Whispering Stacks' double-arch.

A heavy vellum scroll sealed in blue wax, the script in silvered ink. The seal is the temple's, not a wizard's.

Pell's gift: a small, indestructible book in plain leather. The pages explain how the dice fall in the realm — what they are, how the realm reads them, why your roll lands face-up before the realm decides.

A scholarly volume on fire-element dragons. Bound in red leather. Smells faintly of cedar smoke. A single human hair is pressed between two pages near the back.

A heavy quarto bound in dark leather, the cover faintly cold to the touch even in summer. The pages are stitched in iron-thread. The author's name has been scratched out and never replaced.

A slim folio bound in midnight cloth, the spine stitched with silver thread that has tarnished to grey. The pages map every eclipse recorded in the realm for two hundred years.

A red glass vial in a leather sleeve, sealed in wax. The liquid inside is the color of beet juice and tastes like iron and sage.

A small amber flask. Hot in the mouth, slow in the limbs.

A squat ceramic flask sealed in red wax with a soot mark pressed into it. The liquid inside is silvery-thick and cold to the touch.

A small green flask sealed in red wax. The liquid is the color of weak ale and tastes like clove and salt.

One day of trail supplies. Brown bread, hard cheese, a knot of dried meat, a piece of dried fruit. Wrapped in waxed cloth.

A bundle of three pitch-tipped pine torches lashed together with twine. Each burns about an hour. The pitch smells of resin and faint smoke.

Fifty feet of three-strand hemp rope, oiled. Coiled in a figure-eight. Smells of tar and ship-rooms.

A torch of pale wood, the head wrapped in cloth that does not blacken. The flame is steady and silent and smells of nothing. It does not warm a hand much. It lights everything.

A tin lantern with a glazed horn window and a hood that swings down on a leather hinge. Burns lamp-oil; the hood narrows the light to a slat.

An oiled-linen map of the Crimson Wastes, folded into quarters. Three watering-holes marked in red. A footprint of a dragon -- Vorthul's, by the size -- inked at the southwest corner without explanation.

A rough, milky stone the size of a thumbnail. Catches light dully. The cutter at the Three-Balls House could tell you what's inside it; the road cannot.

A sealed letter of heavy cream paper, the wax dark green and pressed with a quill-and-arch sigil. Addressed in a careful hand to 'The Walker, when she or he becomes one.'

An iron key the length of your hand, the bow shaped like a tongue of flame. The teeth are odd: three deep cuts and one shallow one, the shallow cut filed smooth as if it had been used many times.

A small leather pouch of finely milled black iron filings, kept dry with a wax-paper inner liner. Cold to the touch.