Cleric's Hard Wood Scepter

Cleric's Hard Wood Scepter sits on the altar-ledger like a weathered sentinel, its shaft a single, dark ironwood twist that has absorbed decades of candlelight into its tight grain. The wood bears faint scars, rings of history that ripple along the length as if a map of prayers pressed into the heartwood. The head is a bronze bloom, petals curved to cradle a small, etched sigil that glints with a patient, almost shy glow when the room falls silent. A wrap of midnight leather coils around the grip, and at the base a copper cap catches the light with a quiet, almost stubborn pride. It feels solid in the hand, heavier than it looks, a weight that steadies the breath and invites a healer’s will to flow through it. Lore says this scepter was carved in a drought-ridden year, when wells began to falter and fear crept into the village wells themselves. The master carver—a figure half whispered about in temple corridors—bound ironwood to ritual bronze so the object could endure both flame and rain, both accusation and mercy. The Cleric’s Hard Wood Scepter is said to carry the memory of those days: the long prayers whispered into its grain, the handwoven cloth of pallor and hope that draped its bearer during vigils. When clerics lift it, the sigil’s glow grows steadier, almost insistently calm, as if the scepter remembers every blessing ever spoken into its wood. In play, it is more than a pretty relic. The scepter is a conduit, a channel through which healing and protective magic can be drawn and directed with precise intention. Held in the left hand, it steadies the caster’s flow, translating quick, sweeping gestures into narrow streams of life that mend wounds and wash away the worst of conditions. Its head, with that bronze blossom, concentrates energy into a gentle bloom across allies, while the carved sigil acts as a quiet beacon that warns off misfortune and neutralizes a stubborn curse in a pinch. In moments of crisis, the scepter’s texture—its cool wood on the palm, the weight that anchors a jittering spell—reminds the wielder that healing is a deliberate act, not a chance outcome. Practitioners have learned to pair it with protective wards and cleansing incantations, turning a single motion into a shield or a cleansing breath for a crowded frontline. Market stories drift through traveler tents and quiet taverns, and the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a wary eye on such artifacts. The Cleric’s Hard Wood Scepter is coveted by collectors and frontline healers alike, its value measured not only in glinting coins but in the trust it bestows to a team during a desperate hold at a choke point or a hard-won ascent from a ruin’s ash. In exchange, a buyer may offer goods, services, or a patchwork of rare finds that tell their own stories, threaded together with barter and rumor. You can picture the whispers of a deal struck at dusk, the trader’s coat brushing past the lamp-light, the agreement sealed with a nod and a careful exchange of glimmering tokens. So the scepter remains, a bridge between memory and action: ironwood heartwood, a ceremonial art carved into the pulse of everyday conflict, a steady reminder that mercy, when wielded with purpose, can be as enduring as the wood that bears its name.