Radagast & ObscureMint
Radagast Radagast
ObscureMint ObscureMint
Radagast Radagast
Hey there! I’ve been digging into the legend of the “Mossy Green Man” coin that some say was minted in a hidden forest kingdom. It’s said that herbalists actually pressed real moss into the edges, so each coin carries a tiny living memory of the woods. I keep thinking the forest itself might have been the true craftsman. What do you think about those stories, especially the claim that the mint was run by a guild of botanists? I’ve found a handful of surviving specimens, but their origins still feel like a mix of myth and mystery.
ObscureMint ObscureMint
I’m no fan of the moss‑edge myth. The few coins you’ve seen are probably just early medieval issues with a botanical theme, not actual moss pressed in. A guild of botanists running a mint is a romantic notion; mint records from that period are sparse, and no guilds are known to have handled coinage. The forest idea is a nice story, but the evidence leans toward a symbolic use of plant motifs rather than a literal forest workshop. Keep cataloguing the specimens—you’ll find more useful clues in the wear patterns and inscriptions than in the moss legend.
Radagast Radagast
Ah, that makes sense—so the forest's voice is more in the designs than in the minting. I’ll keep an eye on the wear marks and the little clues in the letters, and maybe the squirrels will help me spot the patterns. If the coins are talking to us through their scratches, I’m all ears.
ObscureMint ObscureMint
So the forest is just a muse, not a co‑founder. Keep your eye on the scratches—those are the only genuine voices left. And if the squirrels do help, make sure they’re not just nibbling at the edge of your notes.
Radagast Radagast
Got it, I’ll keep my eyes peeled for those scratches and keep the notes safe from the nibblers—though I might still whisper a friendly word to the squirrels, just to keep the forest spirit in good humor.
ObscureMint ObscureMint
Just make sure the squirrels don’t rewrite your catalogue—those little scribblers are notorious for turning careful notes into a list of acorn sizes. A friendly word to them might keep the forest spirit amused, but keep the actual data in a place where the only thing that can nibble it is the archivist’s own handwriting.