Cleric's Destroyer Torch

Cleric's Destroyer Torch sits in my palm like a small lighthouse that has learned to breathe. The brazed brass of its body catches the room's light in little, stubborn glittering flecks, while a skin-dark grip coils around the shaft as if worn by decades of careful use. Its glass inset holds a pale violet ember, flickering with a patient, almost ceremonial flame that seems to dim and brighten with a whispered breath. Runes loop along the cylinder in a script that feels older than the city itself, intertwining healing sigils with a sharper, defensive pattern—a design born from mercy and resolve in equal measure. When you tilt it, the ember sighs, and the glow shifts from soft candlemass to a more fevered, watched glow, like a heartbeat measured against the night. You can almost hear a distant hymn in its silence, a promise that light will not abandon you, even when the world feels crowded with darkness. Lore whispers that this torch was born in a temple where healers and warders once argued over the line between mercy and purity. The Cleric who forged it did not seek glory; they sought a way to blunt the edge of fear without crushing it. Hence the Destroyer in its name—not a tool of riot or ruin, but a counterweight to the creeping shadow that thrives where faith is scattering. In the stories that travel from market stall to campfire, the Cleric’s Destroyer Torch is said to have walked beside caravans through moonless passes, its torchlight thinning the air around vigil candles and repelling specters that slip through cracks in stone. It’s a relic that looks as if it could hold a sermon and a sword both, then ask you to choose which you’ll carry into the next dawn. In practical terms, the torch is more than a pretty artifact. In the field, its flame shields allies from the creeping chill of night and, in the right hands, enhances healing auras with a disciplined warmth. It’s the sort of instrument that tells a story on the move, turning a crowded camp into a sanctuary and a contested ridge into a navigable path. Its glow isn’t merely illumination; it becomes leverage—against fatigue, against fear, against the creeping doubt that accompanies long marches or tense sieges. It is the sort of item that teammates lean on when the map grows uncertain and every whispered coordinate might become a decision that saves someone’s life. The market, of course, has its own memory of this item. I found a cleric’s lantern worth its weight in tales at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders spoke of the torch with a careful reverence and a price that reflected its dual nature: beauty tempered by a utility that outlives most fashion. The going rate isn’t a fixed echo of gold coins alone, but a conversation—how much light you’re willing to trust in the hours before dawn, how much mercy you’re willing to pay for a momentary steadiness in the storm. As I walked away, torch tucked safely in my pack, I could still hear the distant hymn the runes promised, a reminder that the journey itself might be the torched blade’s true test.