Relic of the Centaur

Relic of the Centaur rests in my palm—a circular shard of obsidian pale as moonlight, its surface polished by years of handling and the soft rain of distant campaigns. A ring of elder bronze runs around its edge, and the sigils of centaur tribes are etched with a patient hand, threads of silver catching the light as if the relic itself breathes. It is light, almost weightless, yet the feel is substantial, like a memory pressed into stone. When I tilt it, a faint hum travels up my forearm, a whisper of hooves on packed earth, of a ceremony held beneath an old riverbank where will and wilderness first tangled. Old tales say this shard was part of a ceremonial device used in the oath between the Centaur clans and the forest spirits, a promise sealed with scent of cedar and iron. It is said to carry the echo of a chieftain's vow, a map etched in runes that only reveals itself to those who listen with quiet years. Some say it was broken at the moment of a great betrayal, and the fragments scattered, only to reappear in the hands of wanderers who carry the weight of stories more than gold. The longer you hold it, the more the tale seems to rearrange itself, like pebbles under a stream rearranging when the current decides it is time for change. In the world I travel through, the Relic is more than ornament; it is a key. When offered to the right scholar at a ruined shrine, it unlocks a chapter of the centaur saga—a questline that threads through canyons, along river mouths, and into the marrow of contested territories. Activating the relic casts a pale wind through the undergrowth, revealing a faded trail that would otherwise vanish under leaves and time. It doesn't grant raw power, but it does tilt the scales toward discovery: a longer path to a hidden cache, a chance encounter with a caravan that carries the tribes' own stories, and sometimes a companion who knows the next clue by heart. In certain events, bearing the relic can summon a centaur guardian—a patient, lethal auditor of oaths—who tests your patience, your courage, and your respect for the old ways. On market days, I drift through Saddlebag Exchange, where traders spread crates along the market road and barter for futures as much as for filigree. The Relic of the Centaur, as I watch, finds a curious balance there—priced not merely by metal and coin but by the weight of the oath it carries. In a fair morning, it will fetch around eight silver, sometimes more if a belt of stories travels with it, or if a whisper of prophecy threads into the negotiation. A buyer may tuck it into a saddlebag, hoping for luck on a dangerous crossing, another may trade it for a different legend—maps, horn fragments, or a long-stopped spearhead—each sale stitching the relic tighter into the world’s long seam. I carry it a little longer, letting the relic speak in its own language, as the road unwinds before me and the centaurs' memory travels from stone to breath, from vault to convoy, always ready to guide the next traveler who cares to listen.