Small Totem rests in the palm, a slim shard of wood that feels almost warm to the touch, as if it might hum if you whispered a story to it. The surface is lacquered a soft, sun-bleached brown, with a knot here and a grain line there that looks like a map you could read if you held it just right. At the top a tiny carved figure—a silhouette of a fox or maybe a guardian spirit—peeks out, its edges softened by generations of handling. The paint is chipped in places, revealing lines of pale wood beneath, and a faint resin sheen catches the light, giving the whole thing a quiet bioluminescence when the sun catches it just so. It feels almost ceremonial, like something that traveled from an ancient altar to a modern pocket. Lore whispers that this is no mere trinket. The Small Totem is said to be a fragment of a larger totem belt once braided into the ceremonies of a border village, carried by scouts who would pause at river bends to lend strength to those pushing deeper into shadowed forests. In stories shared around wood-smoked fires, the totem was a reminder to measure one’s steps, to listen for drumbeats under the leaves, to keep faith when the path grew uncertain. Some elders insist that if you hold it and listen, the wood will remember the old routes—the wind through pines, the creak of a rope bridge, the flicker of a lantern across a camp’s edge—and translate them into a quiet courage you can carry on your belt. In practice, the Small Totem has become something of a traveler’s companion rather than a relic to be sealed in a cabinet. It’s the kind of item you tuck into a saddlebag and forget you’re wearing until a scruffy dawn mission calls you to improvise. When placed at the center of a camp or a temporary shrine, it acts as a focal point, nudging conversations toward caution and endurance. Some players treat it as a live, breathing talisman during a tense night ride, letting the totem’s imagined pulse guide a team through fog and misdirection. Others treat it as a patchwork of luck—an artifact that, in the heat of a capture-the-flag skirmish or a sprint through a maze of ruins, serves as a subtle reminder to slow down, reassess, and listen for the next clue. The price of a Small Totem in the world’s sprawling markets often reflects its dual nature: a piece of history with a practical tilt. In casual chatter at stalls, a seller might describe it as a compact, portable emblem of steadiness, something that can be traded with a shrug and a wry smile. And then a buyer, drawn by its quiet artistry, slides the item into a pouch and thinks about the journey ahead. The Saddlebag Exchange, a common stop in these conversations, becomes the scene of the negotiation—where stories about where the totem has traveled mingle with the talk of silver and bartering. A fair day’s deal might glide between two and five silver, depending on condition, charm, and the buyer’s belief that the wood remembers the old routes. So the Small Totem remains more than carved wood and lacquer. It is a pocket-sized invitation to keep moving, to listen for the old drumbeat under new boots, and to trust that even a tiny shard of the past can anchor a future path.