Minor Rune of Strength

Minor Rune of Strength rests in the palm of a weathered trader, a small square of burnished iron the size of a coin pouch, its surface mottled with tarnish and a thread of silver filigree running along the edge like a river map. The sigil—a clenched fist wreathed in tiny sparks—has been carved deep, and when light catches its facets it seems to hum with a faint warmth. The texture is cool and gritty, the feel of river stones polished by time, with microgrooves that catch every glint and tremor of air as you rub it between thumb and forefinger. Legends say these runes were pressed by smiths who learned to listen to the earth: when a warrior drew strength from the stone, the rune would bind a fraction of a hero's vigor to the wearer. In some stories, it is tied to a former champion who could outlast storms simply by tapping the rune's stubborn core; in others, it is said to hum whenever a true test of will begins. Whether those tales are memory or myth, the rune carries a sense of quiet power, waiting to be claimed by hands that know how to wield stubborn resolve. In battle, the Minor Rune of Strength is a companion, a small, steady wind at your back. It tightens focus and nuzzles the edge of a blade's swing, granting a modest boost to power and a shadow of extra impact when you strike. For those who hunt down a chain of foes or climb the back of a cliff-bound champion, the rune’s presence makes the difference between a stumble and a decisive blow. It shines most when worn in tandem with other runes: it is the quiet, consistent partner that smooths the rough edges of a fight, turning raw effort into a measured, practiced attack. On a rainy afternoon, a vendor at the Saddlebag Exchange would price it as a compass to a lean purse—perhaps a few copper coins in quiet markets, or a trade for a handful of otherwise unremarkable scraps. Prices drift with supply, as festival crowds flood the alleyways and merchants swap goods. As a traveler or a smith's apprentice, you learn to read these prices, to barter with a murmur, to understand that a rune is more than metal—it's a memory of a dozen hands that touched it before you. The post carries me forward, teaching that small artifacts like this one bind communities together, stitching quiet promises into the fabric of days on the road. Night settles over the stalls, and the rune glints once more from a finger in the lamp light, inviting the next traveler to claim it, to let strength become part of their walk. Some buyers treat it as a rite of passage; others as a pragmatic tool for long marches. Slip the Minor Rune of Strength into your gear, and hear a faint murmur from the metal—a reminder that power is kept, not seized, by careful hands and patient preparation alone.