The Rejuvenating Soft Wood Scepter rests on the vendor's velvet cloth, a pale wand of timber that seems almost too gentle to swing. Its shaft is slender as a reed, the soft wood catching light with a satin glow, grain curling like distant rivers under a crust of dew. Along the spine run thin runes—notations of care and growth—carved with careful, patient hands. At the head, a knob of polished elderwood crowns the instrument, and within its center a small emberlike gem holds a faint, steady pulse, casting a green-tinted glow that never seems to fully settle. The whole thing carries a scent of rain-washed bark and resin, an aroma that recalls early spring orchards and the careful tending of healing rings. Lore whispers that this scepter was born from a grove spared by a blight, its wood infused by a sap that mends as it leans toward those who need it most. It travels with caravans of herbalists and exiles who dare to trust their lives to a weapon that wishes to cure first and strike second. In combat, the staff becomes a slow, patient story. When the scepter is raised, a warm mist fans outward, stitching minor injuries together and lifting exhausted shoulders with a soft, almost inaudible hum. Healers wield its restorative charge to refresh allies, cleansing afflictions as reliably as the dawn dispels night. It doesn't shout for attention; it whispers in the rhythm of a heartbeat, giving back vitality between brackets of danger. In the right hands, it becomes less about damage and more about keeping a circle standing, about turning a tense moment into a lullaby of renewals. For groups pushing through fractal corridors or skirting the edges of a siege, the Rejuvenating Soft Wood Scepter is a quiet anchor—a reminder that healing is both craft and oath. Market dynamics enter the tale as traders haggle near the steps of Saddlebag Exchange, where a sigh and a nod can seal a deal. The scepter's value drifts with season and demand, and seasoned merchants speak in measured terms about its price—a blend of woodcraft, ley-touched energy, and a touch of legend. A buyer might trade a cache of rare herbs and a few silver for the chance to cradle the scepter through a night of patrols, while a buyer with more coins might ask for a sealed bottle of restorative tinctures as part of the barter. The path between buyer and item is less a straight line and more a current, pulled by stories: the scepter as a companion to those who tend the wounded, the survivor who keeps a camp safe by slow, steady healing rather than flashy feats. It remains a humble instrument, but one that spreads quiet courage wherever it lands, a wooden talisman for those who believe that healing is both craft and oath. Some nights the scepter rests beside a campfire, its green glow softening as sleep overtakes the scouts. In those quiet hours its magic feels like a vow—to heal, to protect, and to endure.