Hronk's Magi Inscription sits on the desk like a polished coin pressed between thumb and forefinger, a brass plate barely larger than a palm, etched with runes that curl and twist as if the metal itself is listening. The edges are beveled, worn from years of careful handling, and a shallow groove runs along its center where a tiny sapphire glints with genuine, quiet interior fire. The surface is cool and smooth, yet beneath the sheen you can feel the faint grain of age, a texture that seems to whisper of forge fires and midnight workshops. When the light catches it right, the sigils flare a pale blue, almost misting into the air, as if the inscription hums with a secret kept by the smith who carved it long ago and the magi who lent it their breath. The tale pressed into its coppery skin is as old as the hills the dwarves love to carve into. Hronk, they say, was a master of flame and formula, a smith who listened to the hum of ancient runes until they yielded guidance rather than heat. He forged this inscription not for conquest but for memory—an object meant to be bound to an item, to grant a traveler a thread of insight when the road grew tangled. In some circles, it’s rumored to awaken a fleeting clarity of purpose, to reveal a hidden path through a maze of choices, or to sharpen a craftsman’s attention just enough to see the fault in a perfect piece. Not every owner experiences the same gift, and some say the inscription responds to the wearer’s sincerity more than their coin purse. The lore endures because the inscription seems to carry a quiet, patient magic—one that asks a question and then waits for the answer to arrive in the moment you need it most. In practical terms, the Magi Inscription is a tool for those who prize craft, strategy, and a touch of fate in their grit. It is not merely a token to be displayed; it is said to harmonize with a compatible item, granting a subtle blessing that can enhance attunement, focus, or even the timing of a skilled strike. People who keep such inscriptions close speak of a calm that settles over a fight, a momentary clarity that makes a risky decision feel inevitable, as if the story you’re supposed to tell with your gear is finally lining up with the steps you take. It’s not about brute power but about aligning intention with opportunity, and in the right hands, a single inscription can tilt the balance when you’re low on luck and high on pressure. On a bustling morning the caravan legions rolled into the Saddlebag Exchange, their wagons creaking like tired drums. A veteran merchant with a scar along his jaw spoke in low, earnest tones about the value of Hronk’s Magi Inscription, weighing it against copper and a promise of good barter. The crowd listened as he tested the inscription with a careful tilt of the plate, watching the blue glow flicker in response to the exchange of glances and whispered assurances. Prices drifted like desert mirages, but the truth held steady: this was a relic that could bind your story to a longer thread, and those who understood its worth knew to trade for it not just with gold, but with faith in what their next move might reveal.