Carrion Legionnaire Symbol of Blood gleams on a dented iron-bronze disk, the surface marred by the patina of long service and a few stubborn nicks that catch the light like chipped teeth. The central glyph twists into a stylized fang that cups a drop of deep, almost wet crimson, as if the stone itself remembers a battlefield’s hush after a brutal exchange. The red inlay runs along fine, vein-like channels, glimmering when you tilt the badge toward a candle. The edge is scalloped, its rim ridged with the memory of heat and hammer, and the back bears a careful imprint of tiny runes that hint at oath-bound tumult—a whisper of a legion’s discipline etched into metal. It looks like a relic, and perhaps it is, a fragment torn from a ceremonial breastplate that once marched beneath banners stained with carrion-dark history. In the stories stitched into these streets, the symbol is no mere ornament. Carrion Legionnaires wore their badges at the ready, a quiet weather vane that pointed toward obedience, toward the dark beauty of blood magic that older, blood-washed powers promised and warned against. Today, the Symbol of Blood travels in the pockets of traders and collectors, passing from hand to hand like a relic that knows too much about the price of fear. Some tell of its lore by lantern light—a reminder of commanders who could bend fear to will with a single whispered order. Others speak of it as a talisman for the necromancer who chooses control over chaos, a charm that hums faintly when a ritual calls for a steady, patient pulse. It feels that way when you hold it—the weight of memory, the chill of old battles, the sense that you’re holding not just a piece of metal, but a piece of someone’s oath-bound past. Gameplay wise, the symbol is more than a pretty thing. It’s a tangible link to blood magic’s lineage, a token that players use to signal affinity with that austere branch of power. Equipped or carried, it can flutter the imagination into a moment of quiet ritual: a glow along the edge in dim light, a subtle reinforcement of themed aesthetics for a necromancer—an emblem that says, “I belong to this lineage, even if only for a night.” It’s prized in part for its story, in part for the way it makes a character feel like a chapter in a longer, heavier book—one where every echo of the past adds weight to the present. On market days, the symbol finds its way onto trade routes as well as characters’ laps. I wandered through Saddlebag Exchange, where coins clinked and stories traded faster than the sunlight could drain from the stalls. A broker there muttered of demand riding the tides—some days it goes for a bargain, other days it blooms into a coveted gem that players chase across caravans. The price, he said with a wry smile, shifts like a heartbeat, governed by the legends that breathe around it as much as by any metric. And so the Carrion Legionnaire Symbol of Blood remains not just an object, but a bridge—between memory and moment, between vow and daring, between the old world’s austere oath and the new world’s restless, curious fighters.