The entity manifests as a sensation of weight and warmth, like holding rendered tallow in cupped palms—simultaneously sustaining and demanding. It carries the acrid sweetness of animal fat melting over fire, the texture of waxy residue that clings to fingers and won't wash clean in cold creek water. Those who claim it report dreams of endless candles burning in wagon darkness, each flame casting shadows that stretch back toward abandoned graves along the trail. The covenant never releases its grip; even in moments of plenty, bearers feel the phantom weight of scarcity pressing against their ribs.

The accountant of sacrifice in the wagon column, tallying every ox fallen, every comfort surrendered, every mile purchased with something irreplaceable. It measures commitment not in words but in the willingness to transform loss into utility, to render the dead into light for the living. Bearers become the train's conscience and its hardest edge, reminding others that sentiment dies quickly on the trail but pragmatism endures. When challengers approach, this entity asks a single question: what have you burned to get this far, and is there anything left you wouldn't sacrifice to survive?