Mojo

Mojo rests in the palm, a teardrop of glassy jade whose surface is so slick you could skate a coin across it and never scratch the grin of glow within. It feels both cool and warm at once, like a rain-soaked stone warmed by a campfire, with a heartbeat of its own faintly audible if you press your ear close. Tiny copper threads braid through the resin, catching light and releasing it in slow, patient sparks. Along the seam, minute sigils wind in a circle of spirals and runes, etched by hands that believed a bargain could bend fate. Lore says these little talismans were pressed from the heartwood of a spirit-tree by a wandering merchant who traded his shadow for something priceless: luck, kept close in a bottle-green shard. That lore isn’t just a bedtime tale on market nights; it shapes how people carry Mojo in the world. In the caravan camps and crowded plazas, Mojo is more than pretty ballast for a bag. Adventurers slip a Mojo into their kit because it is said to tune the breath you draw when the road goes straight and the path goes quiet, because it can whisper a better route when the map seems to betray you. Dealers swear it focuses a momentary streak of fortune, nudging drops of loot toward your hands, or letting a craftsman glimpse the right component when the inventory is thin. It isn’t magic in a flashy sense, but like a rumor you carry in your pocket—the kind that makes you notice a hidden latch on a doorway or a purchase you almost walked past. The market you learn to trust is always hungry for the strange little things that remember where you’ve been. Today, under a sun-baked awning at Saddlebag Exchange, Mojo catches the eye of a trader with a smile that’s seen many happy mistakes. He unwraps a loop of cords, sets a Mojo on the table, and eyes the crowd as if listening to the soft humming that creeps up from the gem itself. The price tag, written with careful ink, is simple enough to see: two silver, maybe a lesser trinket tossed in if your trade tells a better story. People haggle with a shared shorthand—the weight of a memory, the promise of a future journey—and soon a passing rider slides a pouch across the table, tucking Mojo away with a grateful nod. When you walk away, the Mojo sits quiet for a heartbeat, then glows a shade brighter, as if pleased to have a new tale attached to its edge. It isn’t a weapon or a shield, not a map or a key, but a small, living reminder that in this world, luck is something you gather, not something you own, and sometimes the simplest charm is enough to keep the road open. Some buyers treat Mojo as a compass of chance, its glow pulsing toward hidden camps or long-forgotten caches the map can’t reveal. Crafters prize it as a tiny catalyst, a spark that can coax a stubborn sigil into alignment when the workshop is short on the right component. For the new traveler, Mojo is a promise: a reminder to listen to the road, to barter with strangers, and to keep moving when the trail grows quiet.