Carrion Glyphic Ward

The Carrion Glyphic Ward sits in the palm of a gloved hand, a compact disk of bone-white material etched with a lattice of obsidian glyphs that glint like frost on a window. Its surface is cool and granular, as if it were carved from a relic bone rather than forged anew, with edges chipped as if it had learned the weight of long passage through rain and rumor. When the air shifts and a stray gust carries the scent of damp earth, the glyphs pulse a pale green, not bright, but patient—like a watchful eye that remembers every skitter of a shadow. There is a lore to that patina, as if the ward has soaked up the stories of those who bore it, absorbing humours of battles fought in narrow alleys and courtyards where the dead linger longer than the living. Locals whisper that the ward was born of a guild of bone-carvers who learned to braid glyphs into the marrow of objects, binding protection with a slow, surgical patience. The Carrion Glyphic Ward is said to carry the memory of carrion birds who circled over plague-ridden streets, marking safe routes for those who dared venture through the sickness and ruin. In a world where protection can hinge on a single misstep, the ward feels less like a piece of equipment and more like a talisman passed along from one weary traveler to the next, a small vigil kept in your pocket or hung at your belt. In practice, the ward is more than a pretty artifact. Its presence on your kit signals a shift in how a fight flows and how a camp holds together under pressure. When placed on a surface or worn at the hip, it exerts a soft, protective field that dampens incoming harm for allied companions within a tight radius. It does not erase danger, but it slows its pace enough to give a runner, a healer, or a stubborn defender a chance to regroup. For scouts threading through contested ground, the ward offers a quiet assurance—a moment of stillness in an otherwise roiling scene—allowing a small party to press forward, shielded by the ward’s patient, glyph-lit breath. Its role in the larger story of the world feels as inevitable as the tide. In settlements where sickness and siege have bent memory, the ward travels with caravans and scribes, a portable calm amid clamor. In combat, it becomes a centerpiece of tactical storytelling: place it to anchor a defensive line, or carry it to signal a retreat that still preserves hope. The more you understand its glyphs, the more you hear the cadence of a long, careful history, as if every deployment is a beat in a larger epic about endurance. Market mornings bring the odd, hopeful, half-muttered rumor that a Carrion Glyphic Ward might be found in the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over the teeth of old bones and the glow of ancient runes. Prices drift with the wind, a whisper of silver and gold traded for other relics, until a buyer recognizes the ward’s patient glow and sees in it not merely a shield, but a narrative—one that might shelter you, if only for a moment, from the carried weight of the world.