A Stamp of Origin

The brass mail slot of an old curiosity shop was cold against my palm. I slipped inside the sheltered doorway recess to inspect a rusted tea tin resting on the sill. Tucked underneath it lay an embossed tin seal, tarnished with verdigris and stamped with an insignia of a coiled serpent. Exactly the sort of forgotten relic worth claiming. Balancing my glass bottle on the wet timber ledge, I used the edge of my heavy boot heel to pry the metal seal free from a stubborn knot of dry wax. It popped loose into my palm with a solid clink. I slotted it into the leather loop on my belt. Every true challenger needs a token of conquest.