Cleric's Elder Wood Scepter

Cleric's Elder Wood Scepter rests on a faded velvet cloth, its shaft carved from pale elder wood that bears the soft grain of a quiet forest. Knots in the wood resemble patient eyes, and they seem to watch with a calm, almost approving gaze as light touches the surface. The head widens into a hollowed crescent of brass, etched with sigils that glow faintly when the air grows cold or the battle swirls. A whisper of resin gives the whole piece a warm, living scent, like a grove kept safe from decay. On its surface, lacquered runes bend and twist in a winding river: healing sigils, ward runes, and the delicate script of a prayer muttered by healers who learned long ago to listen for the breath of the wounded. Legends tie the scepter to an elder grove that stood at the edge of a village long consumed by flame. They say the elder wood grew after a pact between a cautious order of clerics and the forest itself, a pledge to shelter those who had lost their way in the smoke. The scepter carries the memory of that vow in its grain, a wooden conduit for mercy rather than conquest. When you cradle it, you feel the soft tremor of that oath, as if the tree itself were leaning in to steady you, offering not power so much as a steadying hand. In the heat of the world’s churn, the scepter becomes more than a relic; it becomes a working instrument of salvation. Those who wield it draw light from its core and pour it into the hands of friends and strangers alike. The beam of healing runs along the air as if drawn by a careful compass, mending fatigue, stitching trembles of pain, and coaxing vitality back into pale cheeks. It also sings with a faint shield, a shimmer that rises around allies who stand in the breach, a quiet chorus that makes the difference between a fall and a future. Its runes respond to intent—the gentler the touch, the softer the glow; the steadier the breath, the stronger the bloom of recovery. I’ve watched it travel through ruined chapels and bustling memory markets, always finding its mark in someone who believes in second chances. The scepter’s presence steadies a room, turns frightened whispers into plans, and lends weight to a healer’s decision when to push forward and when to hold ground. There’s a rhythm to its use, a tempo that mirrors the heartbeats of those who need help most—one beat for deliverance, one for relief, one more for the promise of dawn. In the markets where stories mingle with metal and cloth, the very name of this relic still sparks a cautious arithmetic. I’ve seen it traded among traders and travelers at the Saddlebag Exchange, where the value is measured not just in gold but in the trust it inspires. A well-kept scepter with a clean lineage or fresh blessings can fetch a price that speaks of care given and risk shared; a less pristine piece murmurs of repair, of a fresh carving, of a vow to carry it forward. A passerby might offer a handful of coins, a piece of rare timber, or a tale that costs less than a coin but weighs more than any ransom. And in that blend of trade and memory, the Cleric’s Elder Wood Scepter remains a beacon: a tool for healing, a relic of oath, and a story that travels as far as the hands that carry it.