Minor Sigil of Undead Slaying

The Minor Sigil of Undead Slaying rests in the palm like a coin minted from dusk-metal, its surface pocked by travel and years of service. A circle of onyx-black metal is set with a tiny inset crest: a skeletal skull carved in sharp relief, flanked by two crossed blades and ringed by a ring of runes that catch the light with a tremor of blue-green patina. The sigil’s edge is beveled, the engraving worn from a lifetime kept in a leather pouch or stitched into a weapon’s grip. If you tilt it just so, the relief seems to pulse with a quiet life, as if the undead it hunts might feel the pull of its old oath from somewhere deep beneath the earth. Lore says these sigils were first shaped by caravan smiths who learned to temper metal with the whispers of the dead, binding a blade’s courage to the bearer’s will. They traveled with hunters and scholars alike, passing from one hand to another, carried in saddlebag and satchel, a talisman against sentinels that rise when the moon is dark. When you slot it into a weapon, the Minor Sigil of Undead Slaying does not shout. It hums, a measured warmth that lands on your strikes with a small but noticeable advantage against undead foes. It can tilt a skirmish in a crowded crypt, where bone-plated brutes shuffle with echoes of long-forgotten marches. It’s not a guarantee of victory, but it is a quiet promise: that the blade you wield has a sharper memory for those that feed on the living. For players who pace through undead-haunted zones and dynamic events, the sigil’s effect is a lodestar in the fog of battle, guiding decisions as you choose targets and combos that maximize the bonus. The presence of this sigil also deepens the world’s texture—an old creed passed down by hunter-schools, the idea that even the smallest enchantment carries a story, a debt owed to the dead, and a duty to the living you protect. Markets outside the heartland tell a different tale. In the stalls under the awning near the Gate district, traders whisper about the price of such sigils, tracking them by the day’s mood and the cadence of undead raids. Saddlebag Exchange, a discreet but reliable name in the network of traders, keeps a ledger of their flux, snagging a few coins here and there as buyers and sellers bargain over who gets to bear the sigil next into the ruins. It’s a market of small wonders, where a single token can alter a mission’s balance and, perhaps, tip a war of endurance toward the living. Some sheets of parchment describe future, brighter uses—sigils etched with elder words that awaken a shield against unlife, or whispered scripts that extend a hunter’s memory of safe routes. For now, the Minor Sigil of Undead Slaying remains a simple ally: small, sturdy, faithful, waiting for the moment you step into the dark and let its memory guide you home.