Glyph of the Herbalist (Unused) glints on the counter like a moonlit coin, a compact disk of smoky glass that seems to drink the light rather than throw it back. Its surface is cool and glass-smooth, a touch as precise as a scalpel, yet curved with the gentleness of a leaf. Copper etchings trace a delicate pattern around the edge: fine filigree leaves, a nimble sprig of lavender, a looping root that seems to grow inward toward the center. In the middle rests a single, unnervingly perfect impression of a herb bundle—minted in relief, as if a master herbalist pressed a moment of practice into the stone and then never claimed it back. The glyph’s texture changes minutely with the angle of the lamp, catching highlights like dew in a garden pane, and when you bring it close, a faint resinous scent—a memory of crushed sage and evergreen needles—drifts up, as if the herb itself lingered inside the glass. Lore whispers that such items were carved to hold the promise of a horticultural blessing, a tool in the hands of those who coax life from soil and sea alike. The Herbalist glyph, in particular, belonged to a lineage of traders and field apothecaries who believed plants carried voices—signals of soil, season, and story. An unused glyph, in that telling, is not merely a curiosity but a hinge in a possible history: a version of the craft that might have altered how quickly a harvest could be coaxed from a patch or how readily a guild could identify a rare herb in a tangle of vines. This one, though, sits still, its potential unfurled, as if the world took a breath and decided not to turn that page. In the imagined economy of the world, its uses are the stuff of legends and what-ifs. Some stories say it would have pressed the Herbalist’s craft into a sharper focus: a temporary boost to gathering efficiency, a keener eye for when a patch yields something more than common greens, or a subtle enhancement to identify rare seeds buried in a harvest. Others speak of crafting synergies, where the glyph would unlock the hidden properties of certain salves or tonics, letting a field run be more fruitful without draining the caster’s stamina. Because it is unused, players and collectors alike treat it as a relic of roads not taken—a prompt for what-if conversations that thread through the marketplace and the memory of caravans. Markets drift around such curios like dust motes in a sunbeam. Traders speak in low tones about value and rarity, and the community keeps a pulse on what a glyph like this could fetch. On Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter is especially pointed: not just a price, but a gauge of interest, a measure of how many hands would interrogate its history, how many minds would imagine its function—if only it had been released. Listings whisper of authenticity, of provenance from an old cart, of the possibility that the glyph’s unused status itself is the key to its allure. In the end, the Glyph of the Herbalist (Unused) remains a compact, beautiful paradox—a token of what could have been, and a reminder that even in a world of plenty, some seeds never sprout, leaving behind the fragrance of a garden that almost was.