Minor Rune of the Engineer

Minor Rune of the Engineer is a small brass tile, palm-sized and stubbornly glossy, etched with two tiny interlocking gears that catch the light as you tilt it. The foreground bears a wry little schematic of a wrench and a coil, as if the maker had drawn a map of where it could be deployed. The back is rough, like hammered metal, and a micro-ink patina creeps along the edge, hinting at years spent tucked in a work sleeve or a leather pouch. Legends say it was tempered under the shade of a clanking workshop, where an engineer-priest whispered over the metal until it remembered the rhythm of a contraption. Some say the rune carries a spark from a long-forgotten guild, a reminder that even a thread of luck in a tool can become music when paired with patience. In the hands of a careful crafter, the Minor Rune of the Engineer becomes more than a pretty badge. When slotted into armor and worn with the right gear, it whispers to the gadgeteer's toolkit, nudging the character toward reliability: faster gadget deployment, steadier aim for tool-touched attacks, and a touch more reach in the tinkerer’s repertoire. It isn’t a crown jewel, but it is the kind of quiet boost that threads through a plan, allowing a field engineer to improvise on the fly and still keep the line intact. I’ve watched it turn a simple repair into a small victory—one more shield, one more fuse, one more chance to surprise a stubborn foe with a gadget that finally sings. In the heat of a siege, the rune’s quiet assurance matters as much as gunpowder. Market benches cradle its legend as well as its price. In the hustle of Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over salvaged parts and chipped gems, the rune sits among a nest of trinkets and worn schematics. The chatter is brisk, the counters stained with oil, and the ledger papers flutter with the day’s arrivals. A seasoned vendor will name a modest price—enough to tempt a quick buyer without dampening the curiosity of a new tinkerer—while a sharper eye might trade a scrap metal or two for a chunk of copper. The rune’s value, like its flavor, lives in the story you carry with it, more than in any exact number scrawled on parchment. So it travels from palm to palm, this little engine-note. It binds a craftsperson to a network of tools, a chorus of click-clack, a reminder that the world’s machines run not on copper alone but on the patient ritual of care, repair, and a spark of invention. To hold it is to hold a memory of how clever hands rework the world, one rivet at a time. It speaks of repairs under lantern light, plans sketched on parchment that become things you trust on rough roads.