Knight's Elder Wood Scepter

Knight's Elder Wood Scepter, carved from a single shaft of elder wood, glows with a warm amber grain that shifts as you tilt it, like lantern light on a forest path. The shaft is slender, comfortable in the hand, its surface satin-smooth from years of use; faint rings run the length, each one a small vow spoken by a knight of the old order. The head bears a crest—two sigils, shield and blade—set in silver that has dulled to pewter with time. A winding line of runes runs along the grain, delicate as a thread of dawn. The grip is leather-wrapped, the brass band at the base catching the light with a quiet chime when it moves. It looks unassuming, yet the air around it tenses as if the elder trees lean closer to listen. In lore, the scepter is more than a weapon; it is a conduit for the oath-bound who tended the border forests and kept them from slipping into shadow. Forged beneath a pale moon at the heart of the Elder Woods, it is said to bind life to ward against blight, the sigil a reminder of the vow to protect both people and saplings. Tales tell of guardians who could guide pilgrims through illness or drought, or turn a hostile ambush into a moment of mercy. The scepter travels in whispers, a relic that once spoke to healers and wardens alike. To lift it is to feel duty more than power. In play, its magic favors stewardship: healing wards for allies, shields that blunt curses, and a faint forward glow that steadies the wary. It is not the clearest instrument for raw offense, yet its pulses can synchronize with a guardian’s stance or a healer’s cadence, turning skirmishes toward retreat or rescue rather than ruin. Those who wield it learn restraint, letting protection balance offense, and choosing when to press forward and when to shelter the vulnerable. Markets know its story as well as its steel. On rough stalls and in quiet trading posts, travelers speak of the Knight's Elder Wood Scepter with a mixture of reverence and practicality. Saddlebag Exchange, the in-world marketplace, a trader will tell you, sees them drift between hands with the seasons. A well-kept scepter may fetch more if the runes glow softly or if the brass band bears a caretaker’s mark, while worn pieces sell cheaper. The price tells a story—age, care, and the rare infusion that some owners claim to have added, a narrative woven into every sale. Some nights the market's noise fades and you hear the wood breathe. Its story continues as long as forests endure and travelers linger at markets. And so the scepter remains, a bridge between oath and road. Sometimes I imagine returning the scepter to a grove where elder trees memoryping in the hush of evening. In that quiet, it feels less like a tool and more a compass, pointing toward care, protection, and the quiet courage of those who walk between the branches.