Sentinel's Mithril Plated Inscription

A slab of pale mithril, edged with tiny rivets and a lacquered sheen, the Sentinel's Mithril Plated Inscription lies on the market stall like a coin pressed from dawn itself. Its surface is hammered with a lattice of careful grooves, each rune catching the light as if it were a drop of rain trapped in metal. In the center rests a shield-shaped sigil, a vigilant eye flanked by two coiled serpents of script, and the whole piece is framed by fine borders that resemble a soldier’s plate armor in miniature. Touch it, and you feel the cool bite of metal tempered by ore from the deepest crevices of a dwarven mine, a texture both smooth and subtly pitted, as if the inscription has weathered seasons of comradeship and siege. The lore whispers that this was forged for sentinels who stood at the edge of night, binding ward and will into a single, portable ward. Its appearance is not mere ornament. The inscription is said to bind a portion of a guardian’s vigilance to the wearer, weaving a faint aura of defense around the bearer’s silhouette. In practice, wielders report that when the first blow lands, the plate hums—an almost inaudible note that signals a temporary surge of resilience. Armor tightens its grip, and a pale shimmer rings the edges of the drabest gambeson, as if the metal itself leans into the fight on your behalf. The buff is not permanent, nor is it flashy, but in the close theater of battle it becomes a quiet companion: a shield of nerve and metal that steadies a knight’s hands, steadies a healer’s resolve, steadies a wanderer whose feet carry them through rain-slick streets and ruin-strewn hollows. The lore credits this to the Sentinel order, a line of guardians whose duty was not to strike first but to stand firm long enough for others to act. The inscription carries that memory forward, a small relic that invites courage without shouting it. In the heat of exploration, the inscription is a practical partner. It slots into the right armor piece—typically shoulders or chest—and, when conditions demand, loans a fraction of its ward to the wearer. It doesn’t turn battles into miracles; it simply tilts the scale a fraction toward survival, letting a frontline skirmish become a story of endurance rather than mere endurance test. For a craftsman or a courier who travels between shattered market districts and newly rebuilt outposts, that fraction matters. It is why people trade for it, why it appears in whispers among Guild halls and out on the road. Pricing has its own rhythm, especially in the open-air bazaar and the enclosed stalls of Saddlebag Exchange. The chatter around the inscription changes with the season: a surge in demand after a successful siege, a lull when ore shipments run light, a spike when a rumor of a veteran sentinel resurfaces. Traders speak of it in coy terms, as if the thing itself carries a tide. A careful buyer learns to listen for the right moment, to haggle with patience, to walk away if the price stiffens like a drawn bowstring. Still, the value remains clear: a relic that makes an ordinary piece of gear feel just a fraction more steadfast, a fragment of legend that travels with you, through rain, through gold, through time.