The Major Sigil of Corruption rests in the palm of a gloved hand, a disk no larger than a coin yet heavy with rumor. Its surface is a polished onyx, marbled with thin emerald veins that seem to breathe beneath the metal. Runes etched in pale frost-silver trace the edge, catching torchlight and throwing back a halo of shadow. When you cradle it, the sigil’s texture is cool and slightly gritty, as if a relic scraped from a cave floor has learned to hiss with intent. Legends say it was forged in the twilight between power and decay, tempered by hands that learned to turn rot into a weapon and call it purpose. Some call it a curse, others a key—but everyone who touches it feels a particular current, like a small storm curling along the skin. On a weapon or ring, the sigil awakens with a patient, whispering pulse whenever you strike, a measuring breath that asks you to read the moment before you break it. In combat, it favors methodical, pressure-heavy strokes, rewarding restraint as much as speed. Its presence seems to coax conditions to cling a little longer and to spill just enough chaos into the flow of battle to keep enemies wary. Poison and Bleed may flare in controlled bursts, Vulnerability pooling on a target long enough for your teammates to press their advantage. For a necromancer or a scourge, it can feel like a confidant, pushing a battlefield’s energy toward the wearer while faintly dampening their own exposure to it. The sigil does not roar; it hums a low, steady note that tells you timing matters. It rewards patience, not bravado, and that quiet emphasis makes it feel like a weather system in your gear—an unseen forecast you must read to keep the storm from breaking loose. Markets remember such sigils differently than ordinary loot. I traded mine at Saddlebag Exchange, a long row of weathered stalls where crates creak and coins clink against leather. The hawker I met spoke in a practiced cadence, weaving history with price, as if each sigil carried a map of past expeditions—the ruined towers, the frostbitten passes, the caravans that barely survived a single night. The negotiation was a dance of value and risk; the seller weighed the sigil’s potential against the current unrest seeping from distant frontiers, while I gauged whether the coin would fund the next voyage or the next risk. In the end, the deal was more than gold—it was a transfer of responsibility. The price reflected demand, yes, but also the story that would follow the sigil: a story of corruption as instrument, a tool that, if wielded wisely, could tilt the balance in a dozen quiet, stubborn ways. Placed back around a finger or across a weapon’s grip, the sigil shifts with the light, a patient architect of outcomes. It does not dictate fate, but it nudges it—turns a marginal plan into a decisive moment, and reminds you that power, when tempered with restraint, can be a reliable companion rather than a reckless spark.