Green Prophet Crystal

Green Prophet Crystal lies in the palm like a rain-washed leaf that forgot its color, then remembered. The gem is teardrop-shaped, smooth as polished glass on the outside, with a facet pattern that flickers like candlelight under a forest canopy. Its surface is cool to touch, cool as spring water, yet when held it seems to draw warmth from your fingertips and hum with a quiet, leafy pulse. The hue shifts from pale mint to emerald as you tilt it, and within its core a spiral of jade threads seems to breathe, as if a small grove slept inside. Lore whispers that this crystal was carved from the heartwood of an ancient grove, a shard of a Verdant Prophet's blessing kept safe by root and memory. Some say it was gifted to the first healers who learned to listen to trees; others insist it chose its bearer, slipping into the pocket of a hunter or a scholar when the moment demanded. On the road you see them pinned to a belt or tucked into a sundries pouch, the Crystal glowing faintly under lantern light as if it understood the tale you carry. In the world, it is not a mere jewel but a conduit for green magic: it can attune a staff or a scribe's cylinder, coaxing blossoms from a seed, easing a curse that withers a sapling, or strengthening a healer's wards when the party faces a blighted grove. In practice, smiths and enchanters speak of it as a key stone for nature-inspired crafts, capable of awakening a dormant infusion that lets ordinary wood become fast and resilient, or to weave a temporary sanctuary around a camp. Those who have held it swear that it replies with a faint rustle, as if the forest itself were whispering back, calculating risk and reward in the same breath. Prices for such things keep the mind busy and the purse light at the same time. A Green Prophet Crystal is rarely a commodity one stumbles upon at the gate; the saddlebag merchants of the land move them along with caution, and the Saddlebag Exchange has become the most predictable route to a fair deal. I traded with a vendor there, who told me four or five gold coins would open a pathway to a modest infusion, with a promise of another crystal if the moons were kind. The price swings with harvest festivals, rumor, and the mood of the forest—sometimes a handful of silver if the vendor fears loss, sometimes a small fortune if the grove is quiet and the crafters hungry. I watched a young apprentice barter for one, eyes bright, as if the gem might tell a story in return for patience and trust. Back at the workshop, the crystals rest on a map, dew-like and patient, marking paths to old groves and new alliances. The Green Prophet Crystal threads a larger story of nature’s voice—guiding choices, not forcing them, as traders and rangers mend what blight has frayed today.