Minor Rune of Dwayna

Minor Rune of Dwayna rests in my palm: a small, burnished tile of pale ivory, its edges softened by countless travels and the hands that have whispered over it. The surface catches the light with a timid gleam, as if a frost dream still clings to the stone. Its glyphs are delicate, sigils etched in a cool, silvery blue—two wings spread wide, a gentle hand open in mercy—like a memory of the goddess watching over those who walk a hard road. The texture is smooth yet stubbornly tactile, cool to the touch then faintly warm from pulses of activity, as if it remembers every heartbeat it has sheltered. I feel the weight of its lore in the way the lines catch my eye, telling a quiet story of care, shelter, and the slow, stubborn resilience of life. In the field, the rune feels less like a trinket and more like a patient companion. Slotted into a piece of armor or a healer’s amulet, it hums with a faint warmth whenever healing magic flows. It doesn’t shout its power; instead, it slightly heightens the mercy of a skilled hand, nudging the healing power to bend a little longer toward the wounded. It’s a modest boon, not a blaze, but in the chorus of a skirmish—where a spear-tip flashes and arrows shadow the map—every margin of extra healing matters. Support builds, not with loud noise but with steady, careful increments, and that is where the Minor Rune of Dwayna earns its keep: in the glove-soft moments after a strike is dodged, in the breath a group takes when a healer steadies a shaken line, in the quiet resuming of a march toward dawn. Its significance stretches beyond stats and circles of aura. The rune embodies a small faith made tangible, a relic that binds the work of the healer to the mover and the maker—the caravan guard, the wayward scholar, the patient child who believes in medicine as a kind of mercy. I’ve watched it passed from hand to hand in late-night camps, when the firelight throws long shadows and the world seems a thin thread between fever and memory. Someone always tells a story about Dwayna’s mercy; the rune is a tangible reminder of that mercy, a token kept in tunics and satchels to anchor courage when the path ahead looks uncertain. Pricing, of course, threads through life as well. In the bustle of town markets, a clerk at Saddlebag Exchange will weigh the rune in silver and copper, the pages of a ledger slightly smudged with graphite where traders jot today’s value. The price is never fixed; it ripples with supply, with rumors of a healer who found a stash of old sigils, or a batch of newly minted runes resurfacing after a weathered voyage. A coin thrown across a counter clicks, and suddenly the rune has a new home—a plateau of hope in a traveler’s bag, a quiet promise repeated in the cadence of a healer’s steps. So it travels on, this small tile of mercy, a fragment of Dwayna’s blessing pressed into the fabric of daily life. It remains a reminder that even in a world of noise and risk, there are corners where healing endures, where a single rune can steady a journey and whisper, without fanfare, that mercy still travels with the living.