Totem sits in my palm, a thumb-sized cylinder carved from pale ash, its grain swirling like water turned by a winter stream. The surface bears half-forgotten glyphs—circles, teeth, a single curling vine—that catch the light as I turn it. The edges are smooth, worn by hands that have held other totems and whispered old names. The bottom is set with a tiny copper rivet, a miniature hinge that suggests it was once attached to a belt or sash. When I lift it to eye level, the top bears a raised crescent, like a moon resting on a spindle, hinting at its function: a vessel for ritual intention rather than mere trinket. The scent of resin and oil clings to it, the way a campfire lingers in a tent long after the flames are out. Lore says this particular Totem was carved by a river-dweller who learned to listen to the stones beneath the water, a mediator between earth and current, wind and wood. It was believed that calling upon the ancestors required a quiet breath, a patient grip, and a totem that would not crack under the weight of memory. In combat, the Totem is more than ornament; it is a quiet anchor for a group on the move. Set it upon the ground, and its carved face seems to drink in the surroundings, then spill out a warm, pulsing glow that settles over the closest allies. Those nearby feel a little steadier, their footsteps less uncertain; fatigue and fear slide a notch away as if the land itself steadies their nerves. It does not shout or flare, but when the moment demands, the Totem releases a short, steady cadence—an aura that heals a sliver faster, shroud-wary enemies in a shadow that slows their approach, or hardens the skin against a sudden sting of cold steel. The exact effect is granted by the bond between totem and traveler, a bond that deepens with each use, as if the wood grows more aware of your footsteps and your intentions. Market tales form around the trade routes that feed a caravan like this. I’ve watched a vendor at Saddlebag Exchange lift a Totem with a reverent smile, tracing the grain with a calloused forefinger as if it might reveal its owner’s plan. The price is never written in stone on the stall boards, but negotiated through glances and shared stories: a handful of resin, a bit of thread from a camp-coat, and a small silver coin—enough to keep the bibelot from slipping from hand to hand as easily as it would if it were a common trinket. The Totem, traded and traded again, travels through hands and histories, a quiet conduit between memory and purpose. Some Totems are carved from driftwood washed by the river where the tribes once quarried stone. Others come from cedar hardened by salt spray, with glyphs burned in by a hot iron to fuse the runes to the grain. They are coated in beeswax and a thin lacquer of ochre to keep the wood from cracking in rain. The craft is a rite as much as a trade; the carver speaks the names of the animals the glyphs represent, breathes on the wood, and lets the familiar pressure of their palm guide the final stroke. In daily life, a Totem marks a camp’s edge, invites travelers to share stories, and anchors the mind when the march wears on. In the right hands, it can coax rain on a drought, ease a tense argument in a caravan council, or turn a skirmish’s frightful panic into a measured, slow-breath retreat. On the road, I have watched two buyers haggle over a single Totem as if it were a map to a long-lost city. The Saddlebag Exchange isn't just about coin; it's about memory as currency. A totem's price climbs with age, the weight of its glyphs, and the warmth it radiates when held by the right person. A battered, well-used Totem might go cheap, yet its value is in the stories it has already kept and the future stories it will carry. A fresh carving—bright, with new scratches and notches—sparks speculation: will it awaken quickly, or will it grow into its power only after many marches? The vendor's eyes twinkle as they recount a night-watch by the river when the totem's glow softened a standoff into a whispered accord. And so the market moves, a patient quilt of trade and tale, stitches of resin and thread tying companions to quests and to the land they walk. That is why the Totem remains more than a tool; it is a memory made tangible, a voice speaking through wood, a token that threads your steps to those who carved it before you and those who will carry it after. Even in the smallest glow, there is a promise: the world remembers you, if you remember it first.