Major Rune of Dwayna

Major Rune of Dwayna rests on the weathered oak of a craftsman’s table, a small tile of pale ivory pressed into a bronze backing that has darkened with years. The surface is a whisper-soft smoothness, like a shell that has learned to speak the weather’s language, and the edges bear a careful rounding as if worn by countless fingers. Set into its face is the sigil of Dwayna, a lily child of light and mercy, its lines etched with such patience that they feel almost alive. A faint blue glow crowds the engraved petals, pulsing gently as if the goddess herself breathed beneath the stone. The tile’s grain shifts when you tilt it, and in the right light you glimpse a seam of quiet power—a lineage of healers who carried this same symbol through sieges and snows, binding wounds with the same care a prayer might. Where many relics carry a boast, this rune speaks softly, and that softness is its strength. When it is fitted to a suit of sturdy armor, the Major Rune of Dwayna does more than decorate; it extends the reach of healing hands. The wearer’s restorative arts feel steadier, more reliable, as if every touch is buoyed by a distant mercy. Healers sense a subtle emphasis in the flow of life—less wastage, more continuity—so that a wounded comrade can ride the tide of the fight a little longer, a little more whole. In skirmishes where the line wavers, the rune seems to murmur, “Hold,” not with bravado but with the weight of a remembered vow. It does not replace skill, but it makes skill steadier under heat and noise, a quiet chorus behind the louder calls for aid. Its lore promises that mercy, once invoked, can become a shield as durable as steel. In markets beyond the chapel steps, the Major Rune of Dwayna travels with rumor and rumor’s price. A trader’s stall at Saddlebag Exchange keeps the relic alongside old maps and tins of salves, its armor-bright surface catching the sun and drawing curious glances from healers, wanderers, and veterans of long campaigns. The price—measured in silver coins and promises—shifts with the day’s weather and the stories whispered by coin and client alike. Some buyers offer service in return, others trade herbs or favors for the chance to cradle the rune’s pale glow between their palms. The exchange is not merely a sale but a passing of trust—one healer’s hope handed to the next, one quiet vow traded for another’s survival. And so the Major Rune of Dwayna endures, not as a flashy badge of power but as a relic of compassion that threads through the fabric of a crowded world. It sits on that table and then, with a patient shift, finds its place in a set of armor, in a healer’s kit, in a moment when someone’s breath grows shallow and another’s hands answer the need. It is a reminder that mercy, when worn close to the heart, can outlast fear, and that healing, in simple ceremony and shared risk, remains a story worth telling again and again.