Knight's Elder Wood Scepter

Knight's Elder Wood Scepter rests in the palm like a weathered compass. The shaft, carved from elder wood, is knotty with age, its satin-dark surface tracing stories of long winters. A crown of iron clamps a pale moonstone at the tip, catching light as if stars hid inside. Runic inscriptions along the length glow amber when the moon climbs over the harbor; the grip is wrapped in worn leather, recalling long patrols. The weight sits easy—less a weapon of harm than a staff of jurisdiction, a reminder of oaths over battles. The sconce-like glow is gentle, never blinding, and the grain feels alive to the touch, like a map one could run a finger along to retrace old routes. Legends say this scepter was carved in the shadow of a ruined cloister by knights who tended the last green sprig of elder wood in a memory-eating world. The elder wood, it is said, grows only where vows are kept, making the scepter a symbol of stewardship—the tool by which a knight could calm a feverish city, soothe a frightened crowd, or seal a treaty under a dying sun. It bears the mark of a knightly order, a sigil that once hung above a chapel gate and now glows faint in the scepter's runes when true courage is near. Its glow invites memory, not fear. Beyond ornament, it lends a measured cadence to healing and protection: channels energy into a warding aura, drawing allies into the care circle while the wielder's will curbs harm. It is said to unlock a lineage quest—follow the signs etched in the elder grain, and the scepter becomes a key to hidden chambers beneath a cathedral. Those who seize it find it fits their role: guardians who cradle the group, scholars who shape sigils, or rangers who bring order to chaos. The item feels less like loot and more like a living contract, a reminder that power here is bound to responsibility. In quiet moments between skirmishes, veterans speak of the scepter resting against parchment in a council tent, where it seemed to whisper the next right move. That afternoon I wandered Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans settle under orange awnings and traders bargain in a chorus of coin. A clerk weighed the scepter in silver fractions, tapping a ledger with a calloused nail, offering silver for a flawless polish or gold if the moonstone still glowed. The crowd debated, stories of knights and heirs traded with the price, which began to feel like a vow rather than currency. I left with a parchment noting the quote and a merchant's tale of the last bearer—a tutor in stained armor who used it to calm a citadel, then vanished into a fog that never cleared. It belongs to the map of this world as surely as any coastline—not just an object but a thread tying past and present, quest and duty, memory and action. It travels with the memory of every knight who laid oath to duty, a companion that outlives empires.