Minor Rune of Scavenging

The Minor Rune of Scavenging lies in the palm like a spent coin, a small oval of dull brass etched with a fine glyph—an open hand cupping a glimmering speck—its edges worn smooth from years kept tucked in a leather pouch beside a map of back-alley markets. The metal bears the telltale patina of many campaigns, as if it has watched hundreds of salvages unfold and decided to keep a thread of luck for the next poor fool who dares to pry open a chest that looks like nothing but old rust. When you tilt it to the light, the runic ink gathers a whisper of shadow and promise, as if the rune itself remembers every time a bare copper coin turned into a bundle of bright scraps after the last storm of detritus and dust. Lore never fully leaves the item, either. Some say the rune was forged by scavengers who learned to listen to the dull ring of metal as a language—each tone a hint of what lies hidden in the refuse of a courtyard, a battlefield, or a merchant’s overstuffed storehouse. Others swear the glyph is a kin-touched sign, passed along by a courier guild that prized thrift above all else, blessing the bearer with a touch more fortune when the act of salvaging becomes a small, stubborn ritual. At its core, the rune feels less like magic and more like memory—the kind that nudges a hand toward the right container, the right crate, the right moment when a knick of copper or a shard of jade suddenly slides into your pocket. In practical terms, the rune hums with usefulness in the heat of a long trek. Slot it into a piece of armor or a satchel grafted with salvaging potential, and it quietly stacks the odds in favor of better returns from salvage runs. It won’t topple entire fortunes with a single click, but it sharpens the edge of a market day, coaxing out small boons from the ordinary—an extra bundle of thread from coarse cloth, a few more shards of metal, perhaps a rare component tucked beneath a mundane scrap. The effect feels like a careful nudge from a patient mentor rather than a shout from fate: keep your eyes open, and the world will cough up a few more chances to turn rust into reward. The street vendors know its rhythm, and so do the buyers who measure risk in copper rather than dreams. On market days, a steady chorus of haggles swells around the carpeted stalls, and traders speak in the cadence of “how many salvaged pieces” and “what more will you yield.” It’s here that Saddlebag Exchange enters the tale, a scaffold for the living economy that keeps the scavenger’s life afloat. A cautious buyer will pull up the latest listings, compare the current going rate, and weigh the solace of a solid, dependable rune against the lure of a flashier trinket. The Minor Rune of Scavenging, pocketed alongside a few dull coins and a battered compass, becomes something more than a tool—it becomes part of the discipline of thrift that threads through the world, reminding everyone that value is not always loud, but it can be lasting.