Carrion Ring

Carrion Ring sits cool and heavy on the finger, a dark band of obsidian steel that seems to drink the light and hold it close. Its surface crawls with pale bone runes, tiny sigils that catch the eye like whispered secrets, and a small, smokey stone at the center that flickers with every heartbeat as if a little memory of decay were trapped inside. The texture is slick, almost lacquered, yet beneath the gloss you can feel the ring’s age—grainy where the hammer strokes once rested and smooth where decades of hands have worn it into a second skin. In the right light the runes resemble a flock of skeletal birds perched along the circumference, and there are moments, just after you claim a small victory in battle, when the ring seems to hum with a tired gratitude, as if it remembers the countless hands that wore it before. Lore threads through the metal as surely as the ring threads through a tale. Locals speak of a carrion-stead cult that built their rites around scavenger birds and the quiet mercy of the unsung dead, and this ring, they say, was forged in the same kiln where such rites were taught. Not a weapon, not a relic of glory, but a pact between wearer and watcher—the sense that in the shadows there is a patient partner who will draw strength from loss and lend it back in small, careful increments. When you slip it on, you feel the weight shift from adventurer to survivor, a reminder that every burrowed moment of breath in a ruined city has a cost—and that cost can become a form of nourishment. In practical terms, the ring is a storyteller in combat as well as a charm. It tethers life to your blade in subtle, exhale-soft ways—your strikes seem to bleed a little of your foes’ vitality, and with each cogent encounter the gap between you and your enemy narrows. The ring curates that hunger into resilience: a lifetap that grows steadier as the fight wears on, a quiet shield of vitality that rises when you keep your line and press forward. Not flashy, but dependable, it turns a skirmish into a measured exchange—one where the hunter gathers strength the more the hunt persists. It’s the sort of item you notice not when you holster it but when you notice you’re still standing after a battle that should have ended you. Market days in the harbor town bring the ring its own weather. Traders talk in hushed, excited tones about its value—how a single, well-loved signet can swing a deal between a night’s stay and a long voyage. I heard a fellow at Saddlebag Exchange describe it like this: a ring that doesn’t scream its power but quietly negotiates its price, shifting with the ebb and flow of demand and the scars of the city’s latest night raid. If you’re negotiating, the ring’s history helps you justify a fair price; if you’re bargaining, its presence calms the room as if the dead themselves are listening, nudging the market toward a cautious, almost respectful, exchange. There’s a sense that Carrion Ring doesn’t just grant a utility but stitches memory to action. You wear it, you walk into a ruin, and the world—once cavernous and uncertain—begins to slow, the shadows part just enough for you to find the path forward. It’s a companion, a warning, and a reminder: power that heals is power that asks you to stand a little longer, to endure a little more, and to carry on when the night seems wider than the daylight you’ve known.