Major Sigil of Undead Slaying

Major Sigil of Undead Slaying rests on the edge of my palm, a small, coin-sized disk of something between glass and bone. The surface gleams with a frost-bright sheen, a pale ivory that catches every stray ray and folds it into a quiet, emerald glow. Its edge is a fine, silvered ring, chipped in a few places from a long life spent in pouches and pockets. When you turn it in your fingers, the texture shifts between cool porcelain and a glassy rasp, as if a chill breath lingers just beneath the surface. Runes etched along the rim flare in that faint green when a stray undead breath passes nearby, a reminder of the sigil’s sworn duty. Lorekeepers tell of a forgotten order who carved it not merely as a weapon’s edge-gleam but as a pledge—a beacon that kept the night from swallowing villages that lay in the shadow of besieging necromancers. I found it in a ruined shrine tucked among mossed stones and the tremor of distant drums. The sigil lay in a narrow alcove, wedged beneath a fallen beam smeared with old ash. As I pried it free, a cold draft crawled up my sleeve, and the air seemed to tighten with the memory of battles fought by candlelight and prayer. The elder priest who once tended this ruin spoke little in the rustle of the leaves, but his words were clear enough in the eyes of the sigil: to bear it is to take up a vow against the dead. I pressed the disk into the leather of my saddlebag and pressed on, the weight of its story settling not in my shoulder but in my chest. In the field, its usefulness reveals itself as a thread running through the fabric of a skirmish against undead foes—gibbering ghouls, risen warriors, and pale specters that glide through the outskirts of campfires. Affixed to a weapon, the Major Sigil of Undead Slaying whispers its purpose at the moment of contact: increased presence against undead, a cleansing edge that glints with holy intent when the balance of the fight tilts toward dawn. It doesn’t force the outcome, but it tilts the odds, turning a stubborn encounter into something more manageable, something you leave with a relieved breath and a story to tell at the next market crossing. When a group binds together around a common foe, the sigil’s glow becomes a quiet chorus—one blade, one vow, many voices in agreement that the dead should not rise unchecked. The market, of course, is never far from a treasure like this. At the edge of a dusty square, I heard a trader speak of a caravan route known as Saddlebag Exchange, where wares like this pass from one hand to another with the care of a whispered legend. He spoke in measured cadences about fair prices and honest trades, about the way such sigils travel only with the protection of trustworthy guides and the consent of wary buyers who know that a weapon’s fate is as much about the soul behind it as the steel it bears. The exchange is more than commerce; it is a living thread in the world’s larger story, tying together the keepers of ruins, the riders of the road, and those who choose to fight the night with a light that won’t falter. So I carry it forward, the Major Sigil of Undead Slaying tucked against the heartbeat of my gear, a small relic with a patient, steel certainty: a reminder that some legends are kept not in vaults, but in the hands of those who walk into the dark with careful purpose and a glint of green in their eyes.