Major Sigil of Hobbling

Major Sigil of Hobbling rests on a worn oak desk, a dark, circular disc the size of a palm and heavy as a stone bell. Its metal bears a weathered patina, a mirror to years spent in shadowed markets and quiet raids. The surface is cool to the touch, satin-smooth where it has been polished, rougher along the etched runes that lace the rim. In the center, a relief of a bound leg—chains crossing over and around the shin—draws the eye, as if the sigil itself could restrain a pursuer with a single, reluctant breath. The edges are scalloped with minute teeth of a lighter metal, catching lamplight and turning it into a faint halo that seems to tremble when the room grows hushed. When a hand sinks into the sigil’s old-world warmth, the symbols flare just enough to feel alive, a quiet pulse that murmurs of pursuit and escape. Lore threads through the piece like a rumor you hear at a campfire and cannot quite shake off. They say it was forged by an elusive sigil-smith who wandered between caravans and crevices of the Shademarket, locking a fearsome hush into metal so that a runner could slip away when a horde pressed in. Some tell of a hunter’s oath, others of a thief’s luck, all agree that to hold the Major Sigil of Hobbling is to hold a memory of chases across water and rock, a memory of feet that almost found purchase but did not. It is a tool shaped by necessity—an object that turns the momentum of a moment, not a weapon meant to end a fight but to tilt its balance toward life, toward quiet hours afterward when stories are told again at the edge of the market’s glow. In gameplay terms, the sigil is a quiet, stubborn thing. When mounted to a weapon, every strike carries the potential to scribe a slippery, temporary hindrance upon the target—something that slows their pace, or in a harsher moment, binds them to a momentary restraint. The Major version, sharpened by its rarity, tends to leave a more lasting imprint, giving a fleeting window of opportunity to a pursuer or to an ally who can slip past while the other side reevaluates their stride. It’s the sort of sigil that rewards patient players—the hunter who times a release and the runner who uses space and cover to coax a foe into overextending. And in the heat of a skirmish, it feels almost like a chorus rather than a single note: a reminder that restraint can be the most cunning of weapons. Prices drift through the market like perfume, too. In the labyrinthine stalls where worn boots and bright pennants flutter, the Saddlebag Exchange is a trusted chorus of bargaining and memory. A seller might point to the Major Sigil of Hobbling and tell a buyer to look for the way the runes glow after a candle is lit, the way the metal carries the weight of a choice. It’s not just a cost; it’s a story traded for gold and ingenuity—an exchange that makes the sigil less a relic and more a compass pointed toward the next chase, toward the next quiet morning when feet can move freely again, or perhaps not at all, for a little while.