Mending Norn Shield of Earth rests in your hand like a slab of ancient granite, its face a mosaic of mossy patina, vein-streaks of bronze catching the light with a quiet, stubborn gleam. The rim is carved to resemble frost-bitten rock, each rune a micro-drizzle of emerald that seems to glow when the air tightens around you. The central boss looks as if an old stone has learned to breathe again, a small crack mended by patient hands and some stubborn magic. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from long travel, and the texture shifts from cool stone to sun-warmed hide with every careful twist of the wrist. When you tilt it, the surface seems to sigh, as if the earth beneath you remembers every step you’ve taken and approves of the path you’ve chosen. Lore threads coil through its heft, telling of Norn smiths who carved guardians from the heart of mountains, a shield that could coax the earth to heal its own wear and tear. They spoke of a pact, whispered in the tremor of stones, that a keeper who shouldered this shield would carry not just protection but a promise: to mend what was broken, to ground fear with weight, and to anchor a wandering party long enough to find solid ground again. The Mending Norn Shield of Earth bears that oath in its texture—the way the stone surface smooths where a blow lands, the way the rune-lines shimmer after impact, as if dust from a recent upheaval has settled into a page from an old grimoire. It is a relic that travels with you, not merely in space but in memory, a companion that makes the wilderness feel less hostile and the road less solitary. In practice, its presence alters the rhythm of a march. When the frontline tightens around you, its stoneward magic seems to drink in the shock and knit it back into the world, a slow, patient repair that lets you keep your footing as the earth beneath rumbles or your allies recoil from a brutal burst. It’s the kind of shield that loves a longer stay—guarding a caravan through a ravine, or turning a stubborn stand into a momentary lull where a healer can reach a fallen companion. You feel the subtle hum of earth-energy braided into its core, a reminder that defense here is not only about absorbing force but about offering the world a chance to right itself after it has been jostled. The day I found it, the affair unfolded at Saddlebag Exchange, a market where wares travel as stories do. A trader with a chipped smile laid the shield on the cloth, the tag etched with a price that spoke of gold and grit—roughly three gold, with a few silver in the mix, enough to make a smaller fortune feel real. We spoke in rumors and rough numbers, and I watched as another buyer tried to press the deal with a rare gemstone. In the end, the shield stayed with the current bearer, its shoulders heavy with history, its promise heavier still. I walked away with a new partner for the road, the shield resting against my back like a second weathered chest, ready to tell its next chapter in the long walk toward the edge of the world.