Cleric's Hard Inscription

Cleric's Hard Inscription rests in my palm, a compact slab of basalt dark as a moonless night, its surface hammered with a forest of runes that catch the light and pulse a faint gold when you tilt it just so. A copper frame clamps the stone, edges chamfered and worn by hands that learned to coax memory from stone. The glyphs themselves look as if they were cut decades ago in a candlelit chapel, then pressed flat with a prayer, the lines so precise that even the roughest motion of a battlefield cannot quite gnaw them loose. When you turn it, you notice the inscribed seal of a who once stood between vow and blade, a cleric whose name you can only whisper in the presence of a quiet lantern. The inscription is hard not only in name but in nature: it endures heat, chill, and the grit of long road trips, like a relic meant to anchor a compassionate will in storm and ruin. It is believed to hold a blessing or warding that awakens when placed in weapon or armor. In practice, wielders affix it to jewelry or gear, and the wearers find a modest but reliable steadiness in healing presses and shield plays. In the world, the Cleric's Hard Inscription is used by field medics, caravan guards, and temple scavengers to mark a pact with endurance. It's part of a larger story about how trust is traded in times of scarcity. Travelers tell another tale: a healer using it to anchor their stance during a siege, letting wards hold while the city burned beyond the gates, and the stone’s glow seems to answer the quiet courage of those who carry it. Nearby, a caravan calls itself Saddlebag Exchange, a name that sounds like a good deal and a bad omen at once. Its drivers wheel through the dusk with crates of parchment, tinctures, and trinkets, barging for a fair price, and they know the weight of every inscription they tote. Prices drift with the season and the glow of the inscription itself. A shopper might find Cleric's Hard Inscription priced in the mid-range, swinging from modest silver to a bright gold, depending on how recently its wards were re-inked and how convincingly the trader pledges their provenance. But the real story isn’t just the price. It’s the trust exchanged in whispers as the inscription passes from one hand to another, a promise that the healer’s hands will not shake when the night grows loud. In that sense, the inscription endures not for glory, but for the people who carry it. It remains a whisper of faith made tangible. A beacon for travelers.