Superior Rune of the Wurm

Superior Rune of the Wurm sits flat on a scarred leather board, its surface a dark obsidian etched with a curling wurm that seems to shimmer as you tilt it. The edges catch light with a faint copper glow, as though cooled lava were hammered into a shield’s outline. The texture is cool and grainy, like ancient bark under a restless thumb, and a faint emerald breath glows from the center, pulsing in a patient, measured rhythm. In the old smiths’ taverns and the campfire whispers of scouts, the Wurm appears as a guardian of endurance—an ancient earth-dragon whose stubborn patience blesses those who endure, not those who strike first. Slot this rune into a piece of armor, and you feel the world lean in a little closer. It does not shout; it hums, a quiet vow that the wearer can weather the fiercest storms. The Wurm’s resilience seems to seep into your stance, smoothing the sharp edges of a brutal strike, letting you keep moving when the heat of battle would drive you back. It’s the kind of relic a frontline guardian keeps close—an ally when the boss does not announce its most punishing phase, an ally when a healer’s cooldown is still distant. In the long run of a dungeon, a fractal, or a siege, its presence buys time—breathing room for decisions, a chance for teammates to regroup, a moment for a healer to thread a saving heal through the noise. Prices drift with the day’s winds, merchants trading stories as much as goods. In the shadowed aisles of the Saddlebag Exchange, a whispered map of demand clings to every listing, and the Superior Rune of the Wurm sits in the mid-tier of rune prices, coveted by those who prize survivability over flashy damage. A trader points to the keyworded boards, where buyers hunt for runes that promise staying power, the way veterans hunt for gear that bears their name. I watch a buyer and a seller circle one another, coins clinking, barter blooming into shared laughter as someone tosses in a moonlit trade—leather hoods for a bundle of gold and a handful of jade shards. The clerk behind the counter names Saddlebag Exchange as the pulse of the market, a place where a single etched symbol can circulate between camps, keepers, and wandering mercenaries. Carrying the rune feels like carrying a memory of the Wurm itself: a patient companion that makes the world feel a touch safer when the road grows ragged. It does not promise conquest; it promises endurance, the stamina to see a plan through to its final act, the trust that when you stand your ground, your allies stand with you. And perhaps, somewhere beyond the murmur of crowd and trade, the rune’s glow hints at a deeper pact: the Wurm’s old oath that those who endure deserve to keep walking, even when the way forward is rough and the night is long. Its light lingers, a compass for the road ahead, always true.