Shaman's Ring sits on a weathered finger, a slender circle of dark metal that seems to drink the light. Its surface is rough as if scorched by rain yet smooth to the touch, with pale sigils spiraling around the band like a wind-carved river. A small opal bezel-set in the crown, pulsing with a pale green glow that mimics the breath of a storm. The ring smells of rain-wet earth and resin, and when you tilt it to the sun you can see copper veins threading through the metal, as if a tiny lightning-house lives inside. Folk say the ring was forged by a line of river shamans who learned to listen to the weather and the heartbeats of trees. It binds to the wearer's aura and hums when power travels through the air. In the right hands, it becomes a conduit for healing and protection, a quiet chorus that steadies the nerves of those nearby and lends courage to the struck. In play, its resonance is felt as a steadying companion. Worn by a supportive adventurer, the ring lengthens the duration of boons that keep allies safe and ready, and it softly trims the downtime between guardian prayers and cleansing wards. The wearer feels the energy in their fingertip, a little less jangly, a little more in tune with the marching group. It won't win a battle on its own, but it makes every shielded step and every boost feel more certain, more earned, more a part of a larger plan. One storm-born night, a caravan of herb-sellers and tanners crossed a jagged pass, the air thick with rain and rumor. When the first dark clouds opened and the petrified winds rose, the Shaman's Ring seemed to wake; the opal brightened, and the shamans' memories rose with it. They spoke softly to the ring, and the storm answered with a gentler howl, steering the rams and carts through a narrow gorge, sparing the caravan from a cliff-eyed ruin. Children slept under tarps as the ring's glow kept watch, a moving beacon for the weary. In the market tents of Saddlebag Exchange, the ring's price slides between bartered trinkets and coin, a reflection of its quiet value. A trader might ask for a few gold coins, perhaps more if the ward inside has grown with age or if a historic sigil is bright as a new star. Bidders sometimes trade uncommon herbs or a crafted totem to sweeten the deal, because the ring's worth isn't only metal and stone but story and safety carried in a line around the finger. Now, whenever the ring catches the light, it seems to whisper that the world beyond the next ridge is waiting for someone who knows when to listen. It remains less a badge of power and more a quiet thread in the fabric of journeys, ready to be worn by those who walk between storms and shelter. Its story curls after every footstep, always ready for the next turn of weather.