Major Sigil of Leeching

The Major Sigil of Leeching glows with a pale, heartbeat-green light, its surface a satin obsidian disk threaded with jade veins. A brass rim circles the edge, worn smooth by use, while tiny runes coil along it like ivy, hinting at bargains struck in back rooms and hours spent coaxing hunger to serve. In bright light it seems to blink, as if the sigil can breathe, drawing a thin breath from the air whenever a clash rings out. The texture is cool and smooth where the brass wears, grainy where the etched runes bite, a tactile reminder that power is a pact as much as a tool. Lore says it was tempered in the shadows of a blood-streaked bazaar, where thieves and healers bartered life-for-life, binding vitality to a channel that never rests. The Major Sigil of Leeching is not content to sit on a shelf; it fidgets at the edge of a belt or a pouch, waiting for a bearer who understands that life can be borrowed and returned, sometimes with interest. In the heat of a dungeon or the hush of a vendor’s stall, its presence alters the tempo of a fight. When affixed to a weapon or invoked by a sigil-slot, the leeching effect drains a sliver of an adversary’s life and slips it into the bearer’s reserve—not greed, but a stubborn current that keeps you standing when the world leans. Practically, it makes your damage feel weightier, because every strike returns a measure of those wounds, a quiet rumor of vitality threaded through your armor. But its value is not only gold; it is a gate opened in a market of whispers, where a trader’s eyes measure risk as deftly as price. In Ramble Wharf, beneath a faded awning, a stall hums with talk of stock and season, and a banner reading Saddlebag Exchange flutters in the breeze. A traveler trades stories with the vendor about how demand shifts with the season and how the sigil’s hunger can be coaxed into longer, steadier flows of life. The price hovers, then settles, as the seller jokes that even healing has a budget, and every life-restoring choice is a line item in a ledger you keep not on paper but in scars. So the Major Sigil of Leeching travels, tucked away in a backpack, a belt pouch, or sly inside a charged artifact; it waits for the moment when the pulse of battle matches the pulse of the wearer, ready to invert suffering into stamina and remind you that in the world’s smallest exchanges, even life is negotiable. Some veterans recount nights when a single Leeching sigil changed a skirmish into a decisive retreat, lifeblood returning as sparks. For others it is a companion to risk, a quiet promise that the next blow may turn the tide. In the markets, dealers describe it as a bet for those who measure outcomes in seconds and scars, yet they never admit that its price is truly a gamble of heart.