Glyph of the Forester (Unused) rests on a battered velvet cloth, its face a pale honeywood, square as a coin and etched with a forest’s breath. The grain ripples under a thin glaze of resin, catching light in micro-sparks that hint at a sap’s slow memory. The edges are beveled so that it slips between fingers as easily as a leaf from a twig, and the surface carries a whisper of texture—like bark pressed into skin. In the carving, a tree rings inward to a single, deliberate sprout, leaves curled as if listening to a distant wind. It feels almost alive, a little shard of a woodland promise preserved in lacquer and lore. Those who handle it swear it carries a faint scent of rain on pine, a scent that seems to arrive with the promise of renewal even in crowded markets. Lore says the glyph was born in the days when foresters walked the line between sap and sanction, when guilds kept careful watch over stands that fed towns and kept woodwind notes in a war-torn world. Some stories insist it was carved by a master who read the forest like a ledger—counting how many winters a stand endured, how many storms it survived, and which trees could be coaxed into healthier growth with patient hands and steady will. Unused and unsigned, the glyph has drifted through the years like a leaf on a traveler’s sleeve, a relic that speaks of intention without ever shouting it. People imagine it as a kin to every quiet oath a ranger makes: to tread lightly, to learn from the wood, to let a grove endure for the next season’s harvest. In that sense, the glyph’s silence becomes part of its power. In gameplay terms, the glyph is a ghost in the system—a promise of what might have been, a badge of what foresters hoped to cultivate. If activated, one can picture it granting a modest boon to woodcrafting and gathering, perhaps sharpening the eye for rare saplings, or easing the burden of sustainable harvesting so that it harms neither trunk nor future growth. It would have fit a class of tools that rewards patient gathering, turning careful exploration of a forest into tangible, incremental gains—a quiet nod to stewardship rather than conquest. Even now, players who stumble upon it treat the unused glyph as a narrative device: a clue about a past program, a hint that the world’s economy and its ecosystems once had almost tangible intent behind every token traded or taxed by a guild. Prices in the fog of memory drift and settle at Saddlebag Exchange, where collectors and historians haggle with the same reverence they lend to old maps and vanished recipes. A dealer might lay it out on a scarred counter, the green lacquer catching the light, and tell a story about potential—about how this small square once promised to bless a lumberjack’s hands or a ranger’s route through a rewilded corridor. They speak in measured tones, letting the glyph’s myth do most of the talking, while weighing its rarity against the era’s appetite for what-ifs. The Glyph of the Forester (Unused) thus remains not merely an object, but a hinge—between a world once imagined and the one people still dream into being, one quiet harvest at a time.