Superior Rune of Speed

The Superior Rune of Speed is a small oblong tile, obsidian in color with a glaze of sapphire sheen that catches the light and sends it skittering along the room like a quick ripple on water. Its edges are beveled and smooth enough to fit against a finger’s pad, yet the surface holds a whisper of grit, a texture you can feel as if you’re rubbing wind itself between your skin and a cloak. Silver sigils coil across the stone in rising and sighing spirals, each line a wind-tunnel of runic intent. When the light slides over it just so, the symbols seem to shimmer, as though a current runs beneath the surface, eager to surge forward. Old-timer merchants swear the rune carries a memory of a caravan’s rush—the moment when a supply party slips the last stretch of road and the horizon suddenly feels closer, a whisper of momentum given form. Lore tends to chain itself to the wind and the road at the same time, and this rune is no exception. Tales tell of a guild of wind-scholars who bound a fragment of a breeze into a rock-hard promise, sealing it with tempered glass and patience. They believed speed wasn’t merely speed, but a kind of destiny that could be worn like a second skin. The Superior Rune of Speed, being marked as “superior,” was said to be crafted for those who needed not just a dash, but a reliable flow—a companion for scouts threading through jungle canopies or couriers crossing desert plains where every heartbeat counts. In the hands of a seasoned traveler, the rune becomes less a tool and more a conduit, a quiet prayer whispered to the wind that you might listen and keep pace with its unfurling. In everyday hands, its utility is practical and immediate. Slotted into a piece of armor, the rune exerts a subtle but persistent pressure on your stride, nudging your movement speed just enough to sharpen your reflexes without turning you into a blur. It shines brightest when you’re weaving through crowded streets, chasing a fading lead, or slipping from one skirmish into the next with a heartbeat to spare. For roving skirmishers, it translates to cleaner gaps, faster repositioning, and the chance to press a retreating foe into disengagement from a distance you dictate. For explorers and escort duties, it becomes a quiet partner, enabling longer treks and safer crossings where a split-second advantage can make the difference between squatting at camp and standing at dawn with a map in hand. Pricing is a story in its own right, the market a living river of supply and desire. On a recent stroll from stall to stall, I heard the name Saddlebag Exchange whispered with the same familiarity you’d reserve for an old friend who always knows where the next caravan waits. There, glimmering cases of runes line up beside weather-beaten crates, and the Superior Rune of Speed sits among them with a price that ebbs and flows with the route of demand, the season’s mercantile mood, and the luck of the finder who happens upon a particularly generous chest. Traders trade stories as much as coin, sketching negotiations with a few clinks of metal and the soft thud of a bag being weighed. In the end, the rune finds a new owner, the wind in their step renewed, and the road ahead arrives just a little faster than the last.