The Minor Rune of the Earth rests in your palm like a shard of weathered ore, cool to the touch and speckled with mineral dust. Its surface is rough as sanded stone, yet finer than gravel, a mosaic of chipped lapis and iron-silver sigils that seem to breathe when you tilt it toward the light. A faint, moss-green glow threads through the etched glyphs, as if the ground itself had left a memory on the metal. Old stories say this rune was carved by miners who sang to the rock to temper the tunnel's echo, a talisman to keep a steady hand when the earth trembled. When you cradle it, you nearly hear the sigh of strata shifting beneath a hillside, a reminder that even small things can bear heavy weight. In the world, such talismans are set into armor to steady a fighter's nerve and to nudge luck toward resilience. It is a Minor Rune, which means it offers a modest, constant gift rather than a dramatic spell. Slotted into a chest piece, gloves, or boots, the Earth rune lends its quiet strength to anyone who wears it: a subtle boost to vitality and a firmer stance when you square up to a burrowing skel or a rampaging champion. The effect feels less like a shout and more like a pair of boots that always find the right foothold, guiding your wind through a brutal exchange and helping you ride out a flurry of hits. For a healer or support, the rune steadies the line by anchoring you to the ground—the moment you need to stabilize a broken balance, the rune’s stone memory nods and you’re there. In play, it’s a safe choice for those who want reliability over flash. It doesn’t transform you into a frontline juggernaut, but it gives you a palpable edge when the earth itself seems to press in, allowing you to chain blocks, dodges, and counterattacks with a touch more courage. Its lore ties it to earth’s patient, unhurried power—the same power that undergirds cliff faces and old quarry walls. You don’t feel the rune roar; you feel the ground hold you up. Market life is a soft rumor and a bright ledger. Trade and talk about it happens at Saddlebag Exchange, where a small copper market buzzes around any traveler who has a rune to sell or trade. I watched a veteran barter for a stack of cloth and a handful of silver, the seller counting the rune’s value against the wear on his gauntlets and the stories he could tell after you bought it. The exchange happened with a handshake and a quiet nod, like agreeing on a path through a forest that would not yield to hurry. Even a Minor Rune of the Earth has a role in the broader tale: it’s the quiet aid that helps you stand up to a hillside of danger. As you walk away, the earth remembers your steps, and the rune remembers you through nightfall.