Orrian Artifact Shards

Orrian Artifact Shards glint with a pale moon-glass sheen, their faces fractured into delicate facets that catch torchlight and scatter it into pale blue motes. The texture is cool and oddly waxy, as if the shard were bottled hush and breath, waiting to be tapped. Fine runes coil along the edges, not quite legible to the naked eye, a half-remembered script that whispers of an empire built on ceremony and blood, of wards etched into stone that never truly sleep. When you cradle one, it vibrates faintly in the palm, a subtle tremor like distant thunder through a glass chamber. If you tilt it toward a lamp, the surface seems to drink the light, drawing it inward as though the shard keeps a captured dawn inside. They are, in lore and in dust, relics of a time when Orrian priests guided a civilization through ritual and risk, and the shards are said to be fragments of idols or sanctuaries broken by catastrophe yet not defeated. In the quiet corridors of ruins, the shards carry a practical gravity that makes the heart of a scavenger quicken. They anchor wards and stabilize bursts of residue from long-dormant magic, allowing a careful hand to coax a stubborn sigil back to life for a moment longer. Artisans prize the shards for the subtle way they tune a tesellated aura, smoothing the rough edges of power so that a relic can be wielded without waking all the echoes that sleep in the stones. For crafters, they are both key and fuel—the first spark that tells a latent enchantment where to take root, the second breath that keeps a fragile pattern from collapsing under pressure. Used in workshops, a handful can be ground into a powder that seals or rebinds runes; whole shards can be pressed into decorative inlays for ceremonial blades or shield-bail ornaments, their pale translucence catching firelight and turning even ordinary steel into something that feels ancient and alive. They are not merely commodities but clues—signposts pointing toward the old city’s secrets and the new ones explorers still dream to uncover. Market chatter around these fragments varies with the winds of interest and the mood of the city. I watched a vendor weigh out a small procession of shards, their edges gleaming with a barely contained readiness, while the crowd offered coins and cautious boasts in equal measure. Organic to the daily commerce of relics, Saddlebag Exchange becomes the stage where price and story mingle. A single shard might fetch a modest handful of silver to the ordinary buyer, but a collector chasing a pristine rune or a bundle for a larger project might bargain for more—trade a rare trinket, a mapped surface, or a tale in exchange for a few more days of potential magic. The stall becomes a living ledger of the world’s memory: what was lost, what is being rebuilt, and what guardians still listen when a shard hums softly in the cradle of a palm. So the Orrian Artifact Shards endure, not only as objects of beauty or utility but as intimate chapters of a larger chronicle. They invite us to walk through broken corridors with reverent patience, to listen for the faint chorus of wards waking, and to remember that every shard carries a voice from a fallen age. In their cool, careful light, the world feels just a touch more eternal—and perhaps a touch more repairable.