Shaman's Shiverpeak Talisman of the Geomancer

Shaman's Shiverpeak Talisman of the Geomancer rests in my palm like a relic of a glacier. Its surface is a pale, frost-cracked obsidian disk, the edge scalloped as if broken from a frozen lake. Carved runes wind across the metal in a spiral, catching light with a cold, confident gleam. A small shard of amethyst sits at its center, held in by a lattice of silver that looks grown, not forged. The talisman hums softly, a low resonance aligning with the wearer's breath, stone and soul whispering the same cadence. A ribbon of pale blue thread binds the back to a weathered leather thong, the patina telling of many winters worn. Lore says it was minted by a geomancer cohort who carved frost and earth to guide caravans through avalanches. They taught that the ground remembers the footsteps of those who listen, and that talismans like this one could coax a fissure to sing or a stone to shift. In battle, the talisman tugs at the wearer's latent power, sharpening earth sigils and gently lengthening boons that touch stone and soil. Wearers report steadier hands shaping barriers, a better chance to trigger tremor effects, and a subtle boost to nearby endurance. It's not flashy, but it ties your rhythm to the world beneath your boots, turning every step into a pact with the ground. In a winter-hushed market, I spotted it at a stall lit by blue lanterns, a parchment price tag beside a mineral sample. A trader spoke in low tones about Shiverpeak supply and the patience to temper its frost-tempered power. She pointed to Saddlebag Exchange on the square, where a ledger shows recent sales and a crowd chasing talismans like this. Price is mythical to some, real to those who weigh coins against stories—the talisman moving for gold and an old barter trinket, or a modest crystal value. I watched a buyer haggle, copper coins beside a horn bead, and, with the exchange's quiet crowd, the talisman found a new home. For those who tread the line between ice and stone, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Talisman of the Geomancer is less a weapon than a pact with the earth. Such talismans, traded and treasured, accumulate stories—of avalanches averted and caravan routes redrawn, of a geomancer's patient discipline passed from hand to hand. I slip it back into my pack, listening to the faint tremor of rock and frost, certain that the next frost-wind will test me, and that the talisman will answer with ground-born patience. It is quiet, yet in the right hands it rings like a subsoil bell, hinting at earthquakes to come. And so the tale continues, through markets and camps, where stone remembers footsteps and feet listen for the earth's reply.