Minor Sigil of Celerity

The Minor Sigil of Celerity sits in the palm of your glove like a coin minted in iron and moonlight. Its circle is a cool, brushed metal, edges rimmed with brass filigree that catches the lamp but never blinds. In the center, a disk of obsidian holds a single comet looping across aStencil of runes; the runes along the edge glow faintly when the air crackles with static, as if the sigil remembers a sprint through a rain of arrows. Lore talks of a courier who outran a dragon’s shadow, a message tucked under a sleeve, a trail of wind left in its wake. It’s more than pretty. When socketed into gear, the sigil whispers to your actions, granting a brief surge called Celerity: movement quickened, cooldowns trimmed, timing sharpened in the heat of action. In practice, a ranger might see the trail of traps vanish as a sprint bleeds into a flurry of shots; a guardian feels the time between heals and bursts contract, a shimmer that lets them answer a momentary threat before it crystallizes. It isn’t a guarantee, but a nudge from an old legend, a promise that speed can be bought and kept for a breath. Markets remember its price in stories as much as in coins. I wandered through the stalls where Saddlebag Exchange sprawls across a sunlit square, where crates cough and the coin pings like tiny bells. A clerk weighs the sigil in his palm, eyes flicking between the runes and the crowd, murmuring that minor sigils rise and fall with the caravans that bring them, that a single night’s wind can lift or sink the value. It’s not always a bargain, yet a careful buyer learns to listen to the chatter—the whispers of fabric, the clink of a chain, the certainty that today’s gavel will strike for the sigil you crave. Then there come moments when the sigil’s promise is lived. A courier on a cliff path, rain turning stones to glass, needs to reach the keep before dusk. The Minor Sigil of Celerity glows in its holder as the rider spurs the horse, the speed boost and shortened cooldown letting them slip through a narrow pass, chase down a rival, and deliver the warded message in time. Or think of a thief who uses it to slip past watchmen, drawing a narrow arc of light across a doorway and vanishing before the guard can blink. The sigil is a thread in a larger tapestry—speed as a craft, not just a stat line. Placed on a belt, sewn into a glove, tucked into a saddlebag, it seems almost small for what it does. Yet that is the point—the sigil is a hinge between intention and outcome, between ancient tales of sprinting couriers and the day-to-day dance of merchants and fighters. The Minor Sigil of Celerity survives not as a relic, but as a choice: to move a moment faster, to trust timing, to keep the story moving forward.