The Glyph of Bounty (Unused) rests in my palm like a broken firefly, a small oval tablet carved from a deep, almost midnight obsidian, its surface gleaming with a pale sheen that catches the light in slow, deliberate glints. Silvery runes skitter across the face in a careful script—not harsh, but confident—each line a whisper of a promise that was never fully kept. The edges feel worn, as if the glyph has travelled long distances in a satchel, brushing against leather and other secrets. A faint coppery thread traces the rim, where a once-sealed binding might have held, now loosened by years of carriage, trading hands, and the tremor of many markets. When you tilt it just so, the glyph seems to breathe, a soft, almost inaudible sigh that carries the scent of rain on stone and the memory of a campfire that burned too bright for too long. Its texture is deceptive in its serenity. Touch it and the stone cools your skin, settling into the creases of your hand as if it had slept beneath the earth itself. The glyphs feel etched rather than cast, each character slightly recessed, inviting finger trails and careful study. In the right light, you can trace a silhouette of caravans and warrants—a map of where coins were once meant to change hands, where bounties might have bloomed into stories if the world had chosen a different path. Lore draws a line from the glyph to the old guilds that bargained in whispers and ledgers, to a time when a hunter could earn a reputation as big as the market itself. The “Unused” tag is more than a note; it’s a confession of unrealized potential, a seed that never sprouted into a contract, a plan that never found its final seal. In the tale this glyph tells, it would have been a key, not merely a token. A designed tool to anchor a bounty on a map, to direct a caravan, to broadcast a hunt to those who valued speed, discretion, and the promise of coin. Its function—if it ever came to pass—would have woven gameplay into the fabric of the world: a marker that could be activated to reveal rats of information, consent to a contract, or perhaps even attract rival crews who wished to claim the same prize. Even in its unused state, it acts as a plot thread, a reminder that every hunt in this world rides on intention as much as on steel. Market whispers wrap around such items as tendrils around a candle. In the dim backroom of Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a clerk weigh this glyph against a small mountain of copper and silk. The price drifted in the air like a rumor—silver coins shifting from palm to palm as traders debated its potential, each story about a future bounty tilting the balance of value. It’s an elegant paradox: something so poised with possibility, yet so definitively inert, becomes more valuable the more you imagine what might have been. The glyph sits on the counter like a quiet dare, a relic that invites you to dream up the contracts it never sealed, the hunts that never rang out, and the fortunes that could have bloomed if the world had only opened its door a fraction wider.