Wondrous Item

Rare

+2 Maximum Health when worn.   +1 Persuasion when worn.   +1 Deception when worn.   A modest laurel motif, hammered from Ḧuntāld, forms a narrow ring that once secured fabric. Its thin leaves, arranged in an overlapping pattern, have lost much of their original sharpness, worn soft by centuries of handling. The metal’s surface bears a dark patina, almost black in places, where oxidation has settled into every shallow crevice. A lattice of faint scratches covers the outer rim, suggesting repeated repairs or attempts to smooth away dings and pits that accumulated over time. Thin lines, once etched with more deliberate craftsmanship, now appear only as slight contours.   A short fastening pin juts from the back. The hinge is stiff and slightly askew, the pin’s tip showing a hairline crack that threatens to split if forced. Judging by minute scuff marks around the hinge, it seems this mechanism endured multiple attempts at reinforcement, likely by different hands using whatever tools were on hand. Traces of solder or some rudimentary bonding agent remain at the joint, discolored from age and oxidation. Though originally fashioned to be functional, the pin might now be too fragile to clasp without risking its complete breakage.   Close inspection reveals tiny, uneven grooves interspersed among the laurel leaves: shallow cuts spaced irregularly, some deeper than others. These marks could be decorative, yet the haphazard pattern suggests they were made at varying intervals across many years. In certain spots, an almost imperceptible inlay of a different metal can be glimpsed, though it has mostly flaked away. Its remnants form small, pale flecks that catch the light differently from the Ḧuntāld's darker body, hinting that the piece may once have borne subtle embellishments.   Decay has gathered in patches, especially near the edges of each leaf, creating rough surfaces that flake under gentle pressure. Attempts to remove this corrosion are evident in faint scrape lines, as though someone long ago tried to preserve the original detail. At the edges of the laurels, tiny hairline fractures branch outward like veins, implying that the Ḧuntāld was repeatedly bent or stressed. Overall, the pin’s contours have grown slightly misshapen, as if reshaped repeatedly to fit new garments or to accommodate different owners’ needs. Despite its current state—dull, corroded, and fragile—the piece retains a whisper of careful workmanship. Subtle echoes of intent remain in each deliberate leaf shape.

Hwyreiz (voice hushed, bowing his head slightly): My lady… You’ve lingered here since nightfall. The guards whisper that you’ve not taken rest.


[The Moribund remains still, unbothered by the sudden intrusion. She speaks without turning.]


The Moribund (quiet, measured): The night air is cooler than the halls. I find its silence preferable to that which echoes within.


Hwyreiz (choosing his words carefully): It’s said the corridors teem with— (he hesitates) —unsettled talk. Nobles speak in cautious tones of changes that may soon come.


[A faint flicker of annoyance or caution crosses the Moribund’s features. Still, she does not face him.]


The Moribund: Idle words. Nothing more.


Hwyreiz (bowing his head): Of course, my lady. Still, the more prudent among us worry. Such undercurrents can be… dangerous.


The Moribund (exhales slowly): They can be. But the realm has weathered storms before. We shall endure.


[A moment of tense silence. Hwyreiz steps closer but keeps a respectful distance, voice lowered further.]


Hwyreiz: Forgive me, my lady, if I overstep. Yet some speak not only of storms— (drops to a near whisper) —but of who might stand firm if the seat were left vacant.


[The Moribund's hand tightens at her folded arms, but she remains outwardly calm. When she speaks, her tone carries subtle warning.]


The Moribund: You speak out of turn, Hwyreiz.


Hwyreiz (inclines his head): My apologies. I mean no offense. It’s simply… many look to your kin with hopeful eyes, should ill fate befall the Radiant.


The Moribund (turning slightly, her gaze cold and direct): That fate is not yours to divine. Nor is it mine. (a slight pause, tension in her voice) My sister is beloved for her kindness—nothing more need be said.


Hwyreiz (bowing lower): Indeed, my lady. I but notice how the court has grown eager to speak of new dawns, sometimes forgetting the cost of their wishes.


[The Moribund finally turns fully to face him, her stance straight and imposing.]


The Moribund: Remember that none know what truly slumbers in another’s heart. Least of all in the heart of the Refulgent.


[A loaded pause. Hwyreiz’s eyes flick to the sword at the Moribund's hip.]

Hwyreiz (softly): Of course. I pray peace endures.


The Moribund (in a tone that ends the topic): You would do well to keep wary, Hwyreiz. (turning back to the window) The nights grow long, and too many voices whisper in shadow.


[Hwyreiz inclines his head once more, stepping backward into the corridor.]


Hwyreiz: Then I shall leave you to your watch, my lady. May the Tree guide and guard us all.

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