Carrion Glyphic Ward

The Carrion Glyphic Ward lies on the counter like a card from a long-forgotten funeral, a circular talisman carved from bone-white horn and inlaid with glyph shards that catch the light with a chilly, pale green glow. The surface is matte yet alive, as if the runes themselves breathed, a seam of shadow along the rim that seems to pulse when you look away. Its texture is a paradox: cool and slick in places, rough as sandpaper in others, with tiny pits where pigment has worn thin, like fossilized teeth in a jaw. Around its edge, a braided leather thong threads through a hole worn smooth from centuries of handling. It carries a whisper of old rites—the carrion priests who believed travelers could be bound to the living by a ward made from what decays, yet remains anchored to memory. Lore says the ward was forged in a circle of sanctuaries, where the dead were kept from rotting further by glyphs that lorekeepers swore could slow rot and night-sickness in a pinch. In the world where this ward first learned to breathe, it functions as more than a pretty trinket. Worn at the chest or strapped to the forearm, it becomes a small but stubborn shield against decay and misfortune. When drawn into a fight or a harrowing expedition, the glyphs flare with a soft, sickly emerald, and a hush descends—the air grows heavier with the scent of earth and something like old copper. The ward forges a temporary barrier, a tethered aura that dampens lingering afflictions and buys a moment for quick thinking or a hasty retreat. For necromancers and guardians alike, it is a tool that converts lore into leverage: a brief sanctuary that lets a binding spell take root, or a protective seal that keeps a retreat from becoming a rout. It also suits the more subtle dances of day-to-day exploration, where a pocket of glyphwork can be placed on a tomb’s lip to deter looters or to guide a caravan through a blighted pass. Prices drift through the market like smoke, and I heard a tale as I lingered by the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade more in stories than coins. The stall-keepers smile, and the Ward is weighed not just in gold but in barter: a hunter’s trophy, a tablet of sigils, or a rare poison-syringe. One buyer, a steady-eyed explorer, slid a polished bone-inlaid compass across the counter and walked away with the ward tucked in a cloth. The rate, the vendor warned, could swing with the hue of glyphs etched on the bone; a deeper, greener glow might fetch more coin, while pale, breathy green might move more quietly. The ward is rare, yes, but its true price is measured by how long it guards a traveler from the gate of night.