Carrion Mithril Imbued Inscription

Carrion Mithril Imbued Inscription lies cool in the palm, a thin rectangle of pale metal veined with darker lines, like frost on bone. Its surface is hammered and scarred, a map of tiny rivets and sigils that catch the light with a quick, breathy shimmer. Along one edge, a strip of leather, tanned so dark it looks like a shallow shadow, once held the piece to a cuirass or a weapon’s grip. The sigils themselves coil in bone-white relief, carved with the care of a craftsman who knew the weight of death and the value of life clinging to metal. When you tilt it, the inscription seems to breathe—an almost imperceptible tremor of mithril giving the surface a cold, almost whispering warmth. The mend-welds along the back glow with a pale, greenish-blue pulse, a reminder that this is no ordinary coin or badge but a seal meant to bind energy to steel and sinew. The sigils themselves coil in bone-white relief, carved with the care of a craftsman who knew the weight of death and the value of life clinging to metal. Lore says it was forged in a ruin where scavengers kept watch, where mithril veins ran beneath ash and bone. A necromancer’s apprentice learned to coax power from carrion energy, and this little plate bore the mark of that pact: life dragged from the dead to strengthen the living, a dangerous alliance that sang when the wind blew through shattered towers. In the hands of a traveler, it becomes less a relic and more a tool—an engine of protection and bite. Slot it into a weapon, and the blade seems to catch a breath of the carrion wind; the bearer's strikes gain a creeping lifesteal, while armor-bearing inscriptions soften vulnerability with a shimmer of vitality. It is not a blunt, brute upgrade but a quiet negotiation with fate: risk more, endure longer, strike with purpose. The inscription does not grant immortality, but it does tilt the scales toward survival, especially in the ruin-haunted passes where scavengers watch from behind broken columns and the air tastes faintly of iron. You hear its market whisper in the Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-lit square where traders lean on crates and barter with soft, practiced words. There, the inscription’s price moves with rumor and need: on a good day a hopeful buyer might part with several gold, on a slow market a patient collector could name a steadier, sweeter sum. A caravan’s clerk will haggle over condition—some plates carry scars from long travels, others shine with a reverent, almost ceremonial polish—and the difference can set a family to feeding their last candle or buying a new loom for a winter that never came. So it travels, this small, quiet sigil of mithril and carrion. It threads itself through stories as much as through armor, a reminder that power—when treated with care or greed—will always leave a trace in those who dare to claim it. It travels, this small, quiet sigil of mithril and carrion. It threads itself through stories as much as through armor, a reminder that power—when treated with care or greed—will always leave a trace in those who dare to claim it. May the bearer use it wisely, lest power corrupt.