Across dune and thirsty desolace, coming upon a craggy, mountainous landscape stood in tribal robes a lone seeker. Within their left a cracked staff and an olden parchment. They laid the staff onto sand searing, then drew a sword balanced and well maintained. Round and round the hilt a strong rope would be guided, then to it a finer and thiner line attached woven through the letter. Something felt quite odd, a shiver ran down the wanderer's spine. With a soft sigh, the sword was lifted and carried forth until the nearest rock. There, it would be stabbed next to the formation, into the sand and between the olden stone. Its blade would be treated with liquid mana, just as is, nothing more. Then, the being left after gathering the staff.
Transcript: "Osos qethe zaan Faaz; Kren, fin praan Aus. Aan zul lovaas ahst niin. Wah vo grik Aus. Haalvut hin zun, grind di Laan." - L'R
"Should you require, there's more to be derived. But only if there's an ample offer to counterweight such kindness."