Minor Rune of Divinity

The Minor Rune of Divinity sits on a palm, a small square of pale ivory framed by a threadbare brass border, its surface scored with a lattice of slender sigils that glow a pale, almost holy blue when the light catches them. The texture is paradoxical—cool and smooth as a river stone at first touch, then a whisper of warmth when the room grows tense, as if the rune remembers every healer who has pressed it against a wound, every oath whispered in a chapel thick with incense. Tiny grooves along the edge catch fingerprints and keepers of lore alike, and a faint, citrus-bright scent clings to it, like citrus oil and old parchment. Its appearance speaks of devotion and careful handwork, a relic tended by hands that knew both prayer and craft. Lore has it that this rune was born from a moment when a city’s guard held the line with nothing but faith and a handful of letters from a long-dead order. Carved by a scribe-priest who believed that divinity could be distilled into a practical kindness, the Minor Rune of Divinity was meant to be a quiet ally on the front lines: not a blazing sign of power, but a steady pulse of mercy. It traveled with healers and soft-spoken tacticians, a talisman tucked into the seam of a shield or stitched into the lining of a cloak. Those who claimed it swore that its runes would brighten the wearer's touch, guiding the hands that heal to be swifter and steadier and to ward off the moment when despair would harden into defeat. In gameplay terms, the rune feels like a quiet hinge between duty and danger. When slotted into armor, it subtly enlarges the wearer's capacity to mend flesh and morale alike. Healing takes on a gentler cadence, and cleansing boons cling a shade longer, as if the rune steadies the breath between restoration and exhaustion. There’s a gentle echo of its lore in the way battles swing; the user finds that small windows—moments to patch a comrade, to erase a lingering condition—stay open just long enough to make the difference between a push and a rout. It’s not a weapon, but it is something closer to a promise: a reminder that even in the roar of skirmish, divinity can arrive as a patient, practiced touch. The market scene hums with that same quiet certainty. In a laneway stall, a carefully kept ledger notes prices in the coin of the realm, copper threads slipping into silver, then gold as the condition or lustre of the rune shifts with age. A clerk dips a gloved finger along a line and mutters about demand among guardians and healers who never call attention to themselves. It’s there, in the chatter and clinks, that Saddlebag Exchange surfaces as more than a shopfront—an ecosystem where such relics are weighed not only by their strength but by the stories they carry. A seller will tell you the rune’s worth is measured not only in coins but in the relief it gives on a night when the fortress walls tremble and a single touch can keep a fellow on his feet. Back in the streets, the Minor Rune of Divinity rests again on a worn belt, catching a flicker of torchlight and the soft sigh of wind through an open gate. It is easily overlooked, yet indispensable, a small artifact that holds a larger thread: that healing is a craft as old as fear, and faith—quiet, steady faith—has a practical handsomeness all its own.