Minor Rune of the Pack

Minor Rune of the Pack glints in the lamplight, a small oval of hammered bronze inset with a field of intricate, paw-print sigils. Its surface is slick with a fine patina, like a well-worn coin that has traveled many roads; the edges are smooth from years of handling, and a whisper of resin and canvas clings to it as if it slept in a traveler's pocket. One side bears knotwork of sacks and caravan ropes, the other a paw print that seems to shimmer when the wind shifts, as if the ancient traveler’s dogs pace beside you. The rune’s center glows faintly with honeyed light that catches dust and makes the air feel warmer, closer to home even on long roads. I found mine slotted into a merchant’s satchel in a crowded market beyond the salt flats, tucked between worn maps and a dented tin of nails. The seller, a gray-bearded cartographer with a soft voice, pressed it into my palm and said it had belonged to packmasters who kept wagons rolling through drought and flood. The lore says these runes were favored by caravans because they carried not only goods but a promise the traveler would not be undone by lost steps. It’s small, easily missed among better-known charms, yet in a pinch it can feel like a friend keeping your burden light. In gameplay, the Minor Rune of the Pack feels less like a stat and more like a quiet pact. When you fasten it to your gear, its influence isn’t flashy; it nudges you toward efficiency. The weight in your backpack seems to settle a moment lighter, the slots in your bag a fraction more forgiving, and the terrain you traverse a little simpler to shoulder. Travelers who live by the road—hunters, traders, scouts—keep it close because it fuses with the rhythm of their steps: pausing long enough to trade a story for a spare thread of rope, then moving on with a pace that never quite rests. Pricing rises and falls with the market’s breath, of course, and that breath travels through Saddlebag Exchange as readily as through the caravan’s dust. I’ve watched a few listings hover in the realm of modest savings and respectable trade value, a price defined more by need than by rarity. A buyer might swap tales for it, or a seller trade for a measure of coin, the exchange turning the rune into a small stake in the next expedition. It’s not a trophy, but a tool—one you cradle as you would a coiled rope, ready to ease the load when the road becomes a proper business of miles and memory. So the Minor Rune of the Pack sits in the glovebox of your journey, not shouting its name but waiting for when a traveler needs it most, ready to lend a quiet hand to the weight you carry and the stories you’ll tell when you finally set the camp and listen to the night wind. Its promise lingers beyond dawn.