Minor Rune of the Undead

The Minor Rune of the Undead sits cool in your hand, a slender disk of bone-white stone etched with sigils that glow a pale, unearthly green in torchlight. Its surface is smooth as a river pebble, yet when you press a thumb to a sigil you feel the grain of the stone and the whisper of something older than memory. The edges are lightly chipped, as if the rune survived a dozen hurried insertions into armor, a talisman passed from one necromancer to the next. On its face, a fox-glove of runes curls around a central skull, the lines thin as frost threads. The feel of it is cool, almost mineral, with a scent of rain and a hint of salt—like a coin pulled from a long-lost chest in a tomb. Lore threads back to old skirmishes at the borders of ruined cities where necromancers braided life and lifelessness. It’s said to be cut from ritual bone and inlaid with a shard of obsidian, blessed by a circle of adepts who swore to keep the dead in their proper place. Collectors speak of runes that remember the last words of a departed soldier, and this one is believed to hum whenever it senses a reanimated foe. Some whisper it was forged for a raid that sought to outlast mortality, learning to lean toward those who stand between life and the grave. In gameplay, the rune earns its keep by offering a modest boon to those who wear it in their armor. Not flashy, it quietly lengthens the wielder’s lifelines and enhances the efficiency of condition-based strategies when undead foes are near. A necromancer in a late-night tavern might tell you it acts like a whisper in the bones: a slight boost to sustain on the battlefield, a touch more resilience against curses, and a smoother cadence to the damage stacked on Banshee, Wraith, and other fell kin. For a ranger guiding bone-and-bane pets or a guardian leaning on grim wards, the rune whispers that persistence matters as much as prowess, and that sometimes the smallest edge wins. Prices drift through the markets, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the talk begins and ends for many buyers. A merchant with flour-dusted fingers will show you the rune’s face, recount its provenance, and weigh it against a handful of stamped coins and a barter of camp gear. Buyers haggle, considering it a token from a different war—handy in a pinch, rich with history, and never truly outgrown. It’s not the loudest piece in a collection, but in quiet moments it reminds you that every wound carries a story, and every rune has a memory to spare.