Carrion Hard Wood Torch

The Carrion Hard Wood Torch sits in my palm, a compact cylinder of almost midnight wood, smooth where oil and years have worn the edges and rough where the grain fights back. Its surface bears a lattice of fine gouges, each mark a traveler’s tale—carved by someone who learned to read shadows the way others read maps. Along the throat, inlaid bones pale as winter, form a quiet chorus of runes that no one alive fully understands, but everyone suspects means keep going, do not falter. The head is wrapped in a thin band of brass dulled by rain, and the wick is a stubborn braid of resin-soaked cords that catches a spark with a patient sigh. When unlit, it feels like a stubborn piece of the forest itself; when lit, the flame licks out a pale amber glow that trembles along the carved glyphs and paints the walls with a forgiving light. The name Carrion Hard Wood is more than a tongue-twister; it’s a reminder of the trade routes that threaded between tombs and caravans, where wood grown in shade yielded torches that burned steady through long nights. Some say the wood feeds on memory, storing the last breath of a traveler who pressed it into service. Others tell of necromancers who used such torches to guide their retinue along forgotten caverns, where stale air held echoes of promises and oaths. Whatever the truth, the torch carries a history of perseverance: it resists damp and rot, it holds a spark against wind, and it makes a corridor feel navigable even when the path narrows to a slit of shadow. In gameplay terms, this is not merely a light; it’s a small key. A Carrion torch can illuminate fissures in stone that hide relic sigils, reveal the faint glimmer of a vanished switch, or coax a stubborn puzzle open by letting players trace the pattern that lies in the wall’s grain. It steadies nerves too—palms stop sweating when the amber flame steadies, and the torch’s quiet warmth makes damp air feel almost breathable. In the wider world, it’s a companion for the pilgrim, the cartographer, the scavenger—someone who moves through ruins with intention, letting light lead the way and the wood’s stubborn will keep pace. Markets, of course, have their own weather. I found mine not in a grand bazaar but at Saddlebag Exchange, where a hawk-nosed merchant weighed the weight of time and wood in copper-scented air. He offered two silver coins for the torch, plus a sly story about a caravan that forgot it in a rainstorm—proof that its flame could outlast even a memory. I bought it anyway, because some things are worth the cost of a good night’s light, and some stories are only told when the flame keeps its own pace.