Shaman's Norn Scepter of Water

Shaman's Norn Scepter of Water sits on the market counter, its head a bulbous orb of glassy blue encased in frost-veined metal, the surface pitted as if battered by glacial tides. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather inlaid with small bone runes that pulse faintly with a cold light, and a crescent of bone-white sigils frames the pommel like a winter moon. When you lift it, the weight feels balanced by a hidden current, as if the ocean itself had steadied its breathing to match your step. Along the shaft, runes twist in spirals, long and narrow, and the metal sighs with a soft, wet sound when you tilt the scepter toward water. The whole thing carries a scent of rain on stone and a whisper of wolves—little hints that a Shaman’s craft, heavy with Norn mountain lore, still lingers in this object. It is not merely a weapon but a conduit for weathered hands to coax the world to yield a little more toward mercy. In the right palm, it becomes a river in a palm of stone, guiding water into healing spray that patches wounded allies and steadies weary soldiers. In a pinch, its radiant core summons a ripple of current that shatters rigidity: a shield of mist blooms, and the air remembers the taste of rain as it dampens the heat of combat. For the elementalist who speaks in water, the scepter hums with promise, turning each spell into a long, slow tide rather than a quick gust. The Shaman’s Norn Scepter of Water favors timing, patience, and a storyteller’s sense for when to let a wave roll, then crash, then fade. The lore-soaked wood and frost-worn metal carry memories of the Shaman’s oath, a vow to guard caravans crossing ice-stung plains and to listen for river voices under mountain snow. That history informs its use in the world beyond the battlefield. Traders, wardens, and wanderers alike pass it between hands with a nod, knowing it can bend the weather in small, reliable ways—enough to turn a skirmish into a healing rite or to buy a moment of retreat when the tide goes out. In quieter hours, it acts as a story-teller’s prop, a reminder that water’s path is rarely straight, that even a weapon can be a vessel for care. Pricing stories drift through the markets as well, and the wayward scholar who first showed me the scepter muttered a price that sounded steep until the witness whispered of Saddlebag Exchange, where old relics find second weather. There, under awnings slick with drizzle and history, the coin finally found its match, and the scepter found a new keeper who understood that power, practiced wisely, becomes a current that carries many through the night. I watched the scepter bend the market’s mood as evening fell, a ripple across faces hardened by seasons. When a child pressed her palm to the glass, the blue orb brightened, and I believed the waters had chosen a guardian for moment.