Minor Rune of Vampirism

The Minor Rune of Vampirism is a compact, obsidian-slick shard, the kind that fits like a cold, dark coin in the palm. Its surface is smooth but not flawless, a whisper of roughness along the edge that hints at a hammer’s kiss and long hours of careful polishing. In the center, a stylized fang curls around a single ruby drop of enamel, the sigil done in a deep, almost living red that seems to breathe when light catches it. The whole thing feels cool at first touch, then grows almost warm as you hold it, as if it has memorized your pulse and decided to cooperate with your heartbeat rather than fight it. Lorekeepers speak of it as if it were a fragment of old vows, a token once borne by those who walked a line between hunter and haunted, a reminder that life can be siphoned and saved in the same moment that it’s spilled. In the tale of its origins, you hear whispers of a guild of scholars who tried to bind vitality into metal, of pact-bound necromancers who learned to borrow a foe’s borrowed breath. Some say the rune was forged in a crater of night, cooled in a fountain that fed on moonlight and blood, and then given to a courier who vanished into a market crowd before anyone could ask the right questions. The rune’s power, in those stories, is not a favor but a trade: a small, steady drain on the eater of health, a trickle that can keep a wounded fighter standing long enough to see the next skirmish through. It is the kind of object that makes a frontline healer nod in wary respect and a veteran battler keep it tucked away for the times when the edge of life feels both fragile and necessary. Practically, the rune threads into a world of combat by offering a modest lifesteal effect, a quiet siphon that nudges recovery upward whenever you strike or damage a foe. It isn’t flashy; it doesn’t swing a fight on one decisive moment. Instead, it watches the war’s long choreography and grants a stubborn continuity—the kind that lets a sprightly dagger-wielder push through fatigue, or a stalwart guardian squeeze out a few more breaths of health between heavy blocks. For those chasing sustainability, it’s a companion rather than a weapon. Those who prefer to push the tempo can weave it with healers and sustain-based builds, turning every successful hit into a small but meaningful return of vitality. Pricing threads into that same market-murmur world, and you’ll hear it carried through the aisles of Saddlebag Exchange as a reliable, if not rare, convenience. Traders speak in hushed tones about the rune’s durable demand, noting that in decent condition it fetches a fair share of silver, sometimes a touch more, depending on the season’s scarcity and the mood of the crowd. A careful vendor will describe its glow as a calm, patient thing—an edge you don’t see in the fiercest weapons, but feel in the steadiness of your hands after a long day of skirmishes. So the Minor Rune of Vampirism endures as more than a mere trinket; it is a keepsake of a world where power comes with consequence, where a bite can heal and a blessing can bite back. It sits in your pack like a secret pact, a reminder that survival often rides on the margins of risk and reward, where quiet lifeforce can become a stubborn ally when the tide turns against you.