Writ of Strength

Writ of Strength sits on the desk like a badge of authority. A parchment the color of bone, its edges worn from years of handling. The seal—coppery wax pressed with a clenched gauntlet—shifts in the light, listening to the bearer's resolve. The script is copperplate, looping with purpose, and at the bottom a micro-engraved watermark glimmers in firelight. The parchment smells of ink and leather from the distant forge; a margin note hints at counsel in a hurry: Strength comes not from power alone but from the will to bear the weight of promises. Lore whispers that these writs were minted by the old smiths of the Forge District, handed to veterans who completed the Trial of the Anvil, a test of mind, mettle, and the stubborn will to keep one's vow. The Writ is not a coin but a credential, granting access to skilled labor and the masters of the forge. In the field it feels like a lever pulled on history. A bearer can present it to caravan masters or craftspeople who recall the old guild lines, and the tale travels with the parchment. The idea that one has endured, carried wounds and stories, and is owed a share of the world’s weight travels with the ink. In markets it is both trophy and tool—a cushion in negotiations, sometimes a discount on rare materials or crafting priority. Some traders swear it unlocks hidden ore caches or maps, though rumors outpace certainty. In Saddlebag Exchange it fetches different moods and gold, depending on a seller's hunger for stories and need to prove strength. People who carry it report a strange warmth when near furnaces, as if the writ is listening for the heartbeat of metal. In old stories it is tied to the Mercantile Guild's ledger, where entries record not only assets but oaths. Some crafters treat it as a starting point for negotiations that lead to custom work: a suit of mail pressed with a rare alloy, or a blade tempered to a legend. There are collectors who trace the parchment's lineage through generations, following the signatures in the margins—the foremen who once supervised drills and the apprentices who learned to quicken their hands with the weight of responsibility. The item also speaks to a broader truth in the world: strength is earned in tandem with community, in the quiet exchanges between supplier and seeker, caravan and smith, apprentice and mentor. When markets shift and winds change, the writ remains an anchor, a record that someone once stood up and said, 'I will bear this burden, and thus I deserve a chance.' And so the Writ endures as a character in its own right—binding life to place and place to fight. Not just ink, but memory of the hammer's fall—a reminder that power, like iron, must be earned and carried. When a bearer uncoils it on a brisk morning, you hear the old smiths speaking through time—their lesson that strength gains weight as it travels, and with weight comes responsibility.