Carrion Glyphic Scepter

Carrion Glyphic Scepter glints with bone-white ivory, its surface etched with glyphs that twist like serpents around a core of dark ash. The head bears a miniature skull, jaws agape, from which a faint green light threads along the spine. The grip is wrapped in frayed velvet the color of old blood, comfortable to the hand yet weighted with memory. Each rune seems to hum when you cradle it, as if the scepter remembers every ritual its maker performed and every corpse it helped raise to patient, listening feet. It feels less a tool than a witness to decay's slow art. Lore matches the feel. The weapon is said to have been forged by relic-hungry orders in a desecrated forge, carved with bargains sealed under a new moon. The glyphs narrate tales of wards and bargains struck in shadow, of power earned through restraint. Some insist the scepter carries a memory of the first life it touched, while others whisper it awakens only when the user treats decay as part of the living world—honor the dead and protect the living, and the power stays steady. In combat, it becomes a conduit for necromantic craft—the kind that turns distance into consequence. A few clean casts fire a necrotic pulse, draining vigor from foes and funneling a portion back to the wielder. In practiced hands it sharpens minions, amplifies conditions, and can reframe a skirmish with a well-timed echo of bone and ritual. It rewards patience as much as audacity: careful placement, deliberate glyph-reading, and the willingness to balance damage with a line of protection for allies. Prices drift through the city like specters, and the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a wary ledger of such tokens. I watched a merchant slide the scepter across a brass counter while a clerk inked a note about market mood. The price shifted with the street's breath—some days light, some days heavy—and finally settled on a neat stack of silver plus a barter item. The exchange's creaking floors and candlelight give a sense that every deal is a pact as much as a purchase. The scepter passed hand to hand, and with it, a thread of the city’s ongoing story. Now it rests beside a map and a bottle of tincture, waiting for the right moment to sing again. It belongs not only to the wielder who claims it but to the world it touches—the restless cemetery, the dim courtyards, the dimming lanterns along alleys where bargains are born and kept. If you listen, the glyphs murmur of balance and mercy, reminding us that power, like decay, is a shared measure. The Carrion Glyphic Scepter endures because it teaches restraint—an ally for those who weigh every bite of life before drawing the next. Its silence carries as much consequence as its strike, for in the end the world remembers the promises kept and the lives spared—blessings and cautions whispered in equal measure whenever the scepter wakes again. It remains a quiet legend in making.