Minor Rune of Altruism

Minor Rune of Altruism is a small rune tile that catches the eye the moment you pull it from a leather pouch. Its face is a pale, glassy stone, set in a frame of hammered brass. The glyph at its center resembles two hands reaching toward one another, cupped in a circle of faint gold lines. When you hold it up to the lamp, the rune seems to drink in the light and release a quiet warmth that travels across your knuckles. It feels as if the past—craftsmen, healers, and caravan drivers who crossed rough plains with little to spare—conspired to leave this little badge of care in your pocket. The texture is surprisingly smooth, like river-worn pebbles polished by time, yet the surface keeps a low, almost purring warmth that reminds you it wants to be used. In the field, the Minor Rune of Altruism is more than decoration. It anchors a philosophy of support; slotted into armor, it tends to nudge a party toward cooperative play. Where others chase glory, you notice the little taps of help: a shrouded bracket of heals, a shield that blooms just as a teammate steps into danger, a boon that lingers a heartbeat longer for those who share the load. The lore around the rune speaks of healers who believed wounds were lighter when carried together, of wandering crafters who refused to abandon a friend even as the caravan faltered. Put in the right hands, it becomes a quiet cue: you are not the hero alone; you are the hinge through which many turn toward safety. The true magic, as many veteran travelers tell you around the market fires, isn’t a blaze but a pattern. The Minor Rune of Altruism nudges your build toward synergy—the kind of teamwork that makes or breaks a difficult strike in a crowded ziggurat or a long climb across shifting sands. It nudges your actions toward assisting, shielding, sharing boons, and when your fellows stagger under pressure, you notice your own cooldowns bending just enough to grant another chance for a look of relief to pass between you and your companion. It’s a small thing, but in the right fight, it feels like the world tilts toward mercy. Prices drift in the market, of course, and you learn this from travelers who haunt the Saddlebag Exchange. A trader with a weathered ledger will tell you a minor rune can be picked up for a handful of silver, sometimes more if supplies are scarce or the crowd is hungry for a particular omen. The value, like the rune’s worth in battle, isn’t in the gold you fling at it but in the way it changes the rhythm of your party’s ascent—one supportive note that turns a stumble into a step forward. By dusk, the rune’s gentle pressure on your palm feels like consent to care, not a burden. In a world that tests travelers with storms, small acts of altruism bind strangers into a surviving, wandering family, united.