Relic of Speed

Relic of Speed sits in the palm like a teardrop of glass, its surface a portrait of motion paused mid-leap. The orb is no larger than a coin but weighs with the gravity of a remembered sprint. Its casing is a thin slice of obsidian-dark metal, worked with micro-sigils that thread around the circumference in delicate silver lines. When you tilt it to the lamp, blue motes swirl inside, chasing each other as if a draft always threatens to carry them away. The texture is unexpectedly cool, almost slick, and a faint, metallic scent rides the air each time you lift it—a reminder that speed, in truth, has a price. Some wearers claim the relic hums softly if the wind follows a northbound path; others swear the glow intensifies when you stand at a precipice. Legends say these relics were forged by a caravan of scouts who traded with sea-born sigil-smiths, perhaps during a storm that split a convoy along the Ink River. The sigils etched on the band are many routes, a map of wind and tide. To touch the Relic of Speed is to borrow a memory: the memory of a clean turn on a cliffside, of catching a gust from a distant, unseen harbor. In tales, masters who kept it for a season taught that speed was not only movement but an invitation—toward danger, toward rescue, toward the line where dawn breaks between two mountains. When you slip it into a belt pouch or braid it into a glove thimble, the relic answers with a whisper and a spark. In gameplay terms, it releases a surge of swiftness that carries you across stones, off ledges, through tangled brush, for a handful of heartbeats. Each use feels like stepping through the moment between heartbeat and breath, a window where your sense of distance doubles and the world slides by at a dancer’s tempo. It shines brightest when the route is treacherous—a riverbank path slick with rain, a lift shaft of a wayward elevator, the moment you must outrun a thrumming menace to reach a healer before the last echo of a siren fades. It’s cherished by couriers, hunters, and rangers who live on the edge of risk and timing. On market mornings, the Saddlebag Exchange stalls bustle with impatience and the clink of coins as buyers haggle over glimmering wares. A crate of Relic of Speed rests beneath a canvas cover, its glow visible whenever a cart door creaks open. Prices drift with the moon and the trade winds, sometimes as low as eight silver, sometimes spiking to the high tens when a courier’s tale sells well. The vendor speaks in practiced calm: today’s batch is fresh, yesterday’s sale quiets down the lane, and the next caravan might bring a stronger current of demand. For those who travel the same routes you do, the relics become more than trinkets: they’re palmed maps, mischief-makers, and promises that a single well-timed dash can bend fate a fraction toward safety today.