Relic of Mercy

Relic of Mercy gleams on the oak desk, a small, palm-sized oval of pale stone set in a ring of weathered brass. Its surface is smooth as river glass, with faint veins of copper threading through like river roots, catching the light in slow, merciful glints. A seal of mercy—a delicate sigil etched in fine gold—loops around the edge, barely visible to the untrained eye. The relic smells faintly of rain and old parchment, as if it has lived in drawers longer than any story can remember. In the crease lies a tiny, glassy droplet that moves with the light, a reminder of how life flows through still things. Lore whispers that it was pressed into service by healers during a dark plague, carried to patient lips, cradled to quiet the fevered breath. Its use in the world is not merely ceremonial. When a party carries it to a shrine on the edge of a burned-out camp, the relic is believed to slow time for a heartbeat—enough to steady hands, to align prayers with a target's pulse, to whisper mercy into bruised flesh. In practical terms, players prize it for access to a mercy rite: a brief, restorative sequence that heals a group member, softens the sting of defeat, and mends a torn bond of trust within a fragile party. It is the kind of item that doesn’t swing battles by itself, but when the moment hangs in balance, it can tilt a fight toward mercy rather than ruin. Because every caravan that travels through contested zones carries stories as well as coins, the Relic of Mercy travels between hands like a fragile trust. Traders know its value in the same breath as their own supply drops. In markets stitched along the hillside stalls, Saddlebag Exchange becomes a kind of living ledger, a place where the relic’s price is whispered over coffee-scented air and cards stained with ink from long journeys. A courier might trade a glimmering charm for a handful of silver, or a seasoned buyer could swap a cache of supplies for a showpiece relic if the day is right. The going rate—tangible yet shifting with rumor—glides between a few silver and several gold, depending on the relic’s chest-dented history and the buyer’s need. So the Relic of Mercy moves as a quiet rumor through the world: a token of relief in the middle of a riven map, a small honest piece of mercy that can be pressed into a larger story when trust itself finally holds. And for those who carry it, the relic is less an item than a reminder: mercy is a practiced art, held in a palm, offered at the moment when fight yields to care. Perhaps that is why the Relic of Mercy travels in the hands of retainers and wanderers as much as in stalls and saddlebags. It sits in a pocket during a night watch, rests against a scribe's notebook, waits for a dawn that might heal what a battle wrecked. In the end, the relic is not just a trinket but a promise: mercy can be traded, and mercy can endure.