Relic of the Afflicted

Relic of the Afflicted sits in the palm, a palm-sized oval of bone-white stone carved with flowing sigils; its surface is cool and slick, a lacquer of ash-gray patina tracing delicate ridges, and a pale green glow threads the runes, brightening when you tilt it toward a candle. The texture feels almost porous, like salt-stone worn by sea spray, and a whisper of old fever clings to its edges as if the relic remembered every fevered pulse that ever touched it. Its lore is steeped in a plague-scarred chapter of the world's history, a shard torn from the afflicted and pressed into a circle of protection, as if someone tried to seal away a memory too painful to bear. Hold it steady, and you think you hear the soft rasp of a voice you never met, a name you cannot quite place, and the relief that memory offers can be sudden as a gust. In the field, adventurers say the relic opens doors between moments—the way a dream slips into waking life. In practical terms for the road-worn traveler, it is a key to certain story paths, a conscience-quieting charm that reveals hidden wards, and a catalyst for quests that braid a village's sorrow into your own. Some say it grants a temporary blessing, others that it binds a curse tight enough to slow the hunt, at least for a time. Either way, the relic never seems to be only about you; it drags a wider thread—the tale of those afflicted—into every encounter, from ruined clinics half overgrown with ivy to the damp market stalls where a lantern-drawn crowd gathers to listen to rumors. The world does not hoard such things for long, and the trade networks are careful with its glow. When I stood at the edge of the bazaar, smoke curling from kettle-stalls and the old river glinting in the dusk, the Saddlebag Exchange offered a different sort of commerce than the rest. A weather-beaten clerk laid the relic on a velvet cloth, and his fingers measured value in coins and memory alike, speaking in careful tones about condition and provenance. The price drifted with the wind, not fixed, with murmurs about what the Afflicted willing to part with their relics might fetch—roughly a handful of gold if a buyer showed a steady hand and a clear intention, or trade-sealed bundles for those who bore other relics to exchange. It was not simply a market transaction; it felt like a quiet oath, a promise to carry the relic’s burden rather than merely possess its shine. So I walked away with provenance in my pocket and a small echo in my ear—the idea that relics like the Relic of the Afflicted do more than sit in a drawer. They travel, they tempt, they remind us of a history that refuses to stay buried, and in doing so, they become part of the world’s ongoing story, not as curios but as signposts for those who would listen to the whispers between people, plagues, and promises. Sometimes it speaks, sometimes.