Rampager's Elder Wood Scepter

Rampager's Elder Wood Scepter rests in the palm with a deliberate weight, its shaft carved from a single limb of elder wood. The grain runs like a river of dusk, rings visible where resin pressed through the years, and tiny knotted flecks catching the light as you tilt it. The head is a compact orb built from interlaced splinters, carved into the snarling silhouette of a predator, the beak-like tip gleaming with a faint amber hue. A small crimson gem sits at its crest, catching firelight and turning it into a spark of a glow that answers the user’s intent. The surface is smooth under the touch where the wood has been worn by years of practice, yet a faint rasp remains in the carved runes along the shaft, runes that feel almost like whispers when you run your thumb across them. The scent of resin and rain lingers, the way a forest smells after a storm, and you sense an old pact bound into its fibers. Legends tell that the scepter was not merely carved but awakened by a Rampager—a hunter of the wild who spoke with trees and heard their warnings. Elders in the forests believed the elder wood carried memories of every chase, every echo of the pack, and the weapon could temper a hunter's blood with the forest's own hunger. In the hands of a skilled wielder, the scepter becomes a bridge between arcane currents and feral instinct: it sends out projectiles when you seek distance, stirs sigils to hold the line, and when the moment tightens, the aura around the head brightens to sharpen every strike. It favors a ferocity-minded build, feeding on critical hits and momentum, yet its ancient skin can cradle a measured defense as a ward against the forest’s own perils. The scepter does not merely attack; it harmonizes the hunter and the wood, turning a lone pursuit into a shared ritual with the living grove. On a sun-warmed afternoon in the market lanes, a hawker’s cart rolled past the gate with a burlap bundle of offerings, and someone whispered the name Saddlebag Exchange as if it were a compass. Traders and dreamers paused to inspect Rampager's Elder Wood Scepters, the carved predatory face catching the eye as if it could spring to life and climb from the wood. The price wavered with wind and rumor, often resting somewhere between a few gold and more, depending on the buyer’s nerves and the season of hunts. A customer pressed the scepter up to the light inside the tent, weighing its age against its thrum, and the dealer shrugged, saying the elder wood’s vitality would not go cheap if the forest itself demanded tribute. In that bustling exchange, the scepter passed from hand to hand, becoming another thread in the long story of hunters, woods, and debt to the land. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was a story you could wear on your belt, a pact you could renew with every ferocity-filled strike.