There was something sinister about the pendant that Ciron couldn’t quite put his finger on. The imagery was generic enough, a stylized sun in bass relief on one side and double crescent moon on the other. Time or handling had worn down the details, and he could barely make out the linear hash marks of one of the older clans. Even the metal appeared to be some common copper alloy, no sign of gilding or painting that would have signified a more important piece of jewelry. And yet, he couldn’t seem to put it down. With a sudden burst of stubbornness, the grave robber thrust the pendant into his sack and went back to work with the shovel. Metal was metal, and cursed or not the magesmiths would still pay him well for it.