Honed Soft Wood Scepter

Honed Soft Wood Scepter rests in the palm like a sun-warmed branch, its smooth, pale wood gleaming with a thin lacquer and a head carved from a single block. The grain curls in quiet whorls that seem to breathe as the light shifts, and along the shaft tiny runes catch and hold a faint ember glow when spoken over with breath. The finish is satin-soft, the wood cool to the touch, and when you tilt it just so, you can feel the instrument's history—years spent in carved pacts between woodwrights and forest spirits. The scepter's head tapers to a precise point, balanced for quick, exact taps, yet heavy enough to anchor a ward of bark and light when the spellwork needs focus. Lore says it was forged by a circle of greenwrights who coaxed sap into steel and cut oaths into grain, so that whoever wields it remembers to guard life as surely as they strike. In the field it wears its elegance with a quiet confidence. Its design favors precision—measured pulses of energy, guiding illusions, and the careful shaping of light and shadow—making it prized by casters who value finesse over brute force. When drawn, it becomes a conduit for rapid channels, a wand that does not demand spectacle but rewards timing: a ward dropped at the right moment, a reflective flare, or a blade that seems to sprout from the wood itself. For a traveler who moves by barter and rumor, the scepter's balance makes it easy to carry through a crowded market or a caravan's sway; its weight sits just right under an arm while you count coin and listen to a storyteller's rumor. That blend of utility and memory makes the Honed Soft Wood Scepter a favorite at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders mark its price with careful gold and exchange stories as readily as metals. The stall-keeper knows the timber came from a grove tended by elder druids who believed in listening to wood until it spoke. Prices drift with the hour and the mood of festival crowds, yet the tale behind the scepter remains constant: a tool and a token, a personal covenant between hand and history, ready to be pressed into service as a beacon in the night or a quiet reminder that even slender wood can bear centuries of memory when honed. On nights when lanterns swing and the market breathes with the rustle of hides and ink, the scepter seems to listen, catching whispers of plans and promises. A master will press its wood to the heart of a student, tracing a line of light between destiny and duty, and the student will feel the grove's patience. It becomes not merely a weapon or relic, but a passport: proof that care and craft, and a little faith in living timber, can still shape a world that moves with you. In hours afterward, the scepter returns to the pocket of a leather satchel, waiting to be asked to do what it was for.