Minor Rune of Holding

The Minor Rune of Holding is a tiny bronze talisman, no larger than a coin purse lid, but when you cradle it in your palm it feels as if space itself has decided to lean in closer. Its surface bears a soft patina of age, a honeyed brown with specks of verdigris that catch the light in a telling way. The edges are chamfered, smooth to the touch, and a slender silver sigil runs through the center: a graceful outline of a bag, tied with a looping ribbon. Tilt it and the sigil seems to shiver with a faint inner glow, like a pocket of dusk tucked inside a purse. The texture carries micro-scratches from countless fingers—merchants, wanderers, and the occasional hungry scavenger—as if the rune has learned the touch of people who travel with more things than they can count. Lore whispers that it was forged by the Caravan-Smiths of Verdant Passage, a guild famed for turning ordinary objects into wards that keep a journey orderly when chaos seems keen to catch up. Some say it was a gift from a leatherworker who learned to listen to the creak of a backpack and the hush of a crowded market; whether true or not, the rune carries the memory of a mile-long queue of traders, exhausted feet, and hopeful eyes. In the field, its significance is quieter but undeniable. Slotted into a bag or pinned to a belt, the rune offers a modest boon to inventory management: a slight increase to carrying capacity that lets a traveler tuck in a few extra jars, a handful of carved trinkets, perhaps a weathered map, without slowing down. It feels almost ordinary at a campfire, until a last-minute haul after a skirmish reveals its worth—crates teeter on the edge of full, but the Minor Rune of Holding has given just enough space to keep a few precious finds from becoming a hard choice between hunger and barter. In practice, it’s a companion for the long road: a steady, almost homely reminder that you don’t have to leave behind a favorite talisman or a crucial rune stone because the bag suddenly demands a sacrifice you don’t want to make. Markets bend to such small conveniences, too. A traveler, weary from crossing sunlit plains and shadowed ruins, might wander into a stall cluster and hear whispered chatter about a rune that makes the world feel a little more organized. The Saddlebag Exchange, with its lantern-lit counters and chalk-dusted ledgers, becomes the kind of place where an item like this finds its price not merely in silver but in story. You’ll hear burly merchants haggle gently, negotiating a fair sum that does not strip a buyer bare, and a clerk will slide the rune across the counter with a nod that carries the currency of trust as well as coin. If you listen closely, you can hear the soft tick of a coin, the clink of a buckle, and the certainty that a pocket-sized ward keeps faith with the road—the world’s stories folded neatly into a tiny, well-worn square.