Knight's Elder Wood Torch

Knight's Elder Wood Torch rests in the hand like a relic that remembers the rain and the long march. The shaft is carved from a single knot of elder wood, its grain tight as a whispered vow, the surface satin-smooth where fingers trace the sigils worn into decades of use. Brass fittings catch the light with a quiet gleam, and a slender glass chimney cages a flame that glows amber, not smoke but a calm, ceremonial spark. Along the shaft run thin runes—not perfectly legible at a glance, but legible enough for those who know to listen—blessings pressed into the wood by hands long gone. The wick is tucked in a copper cradle, and a braided cord looped at the butt makes it feel more like a staff than a tool. In the stories the torch has as much duty as the bearer. Some say it was forged in the last days of a fading order, a night-light to guide the righteous through wandering ruins. Others insist it was a gift to a lone scout who saved a town from hunger and poets from despair. Either way, its texture bears witness: the smooth face of the elder wood where the thumb rests, the tiny dings of fingers that passed it along the road, the soft, almost musical clink of the brass when the wind shifts. When the flame is lit, the air shivers with a faint warmth; the beam is steady yet forgiving, a circle of gold that does not burn but remembers. On the map of a knight-errant’s life, the torch marks more than a route. It is used to reveal hidden glyphs etched into walls, the kind that awaken when someone keeps a steady gaze and a patient breath. Dungeon corridors brighten in its wake, and shadowed corners surrender to a cautious glow that helps you decide where to step and listen. It is also a symbol—an emblem of vigilance and mercy—that can calm a frightened relay of travelers or steady a caravan when night falls and the road grows quiet. In the right hands, it becomes a beacon of hope and memory. I first learned to trade its weight at the edge of a dusty road market, where the caravan paused for water and stories. A hawker named Saddlebag Exchange offered a tidy price for relics like this—two silver coins and a chipped moonstone, he said, enough to buy a child a map and a night’s bread. The torch, after a careful exchange, found its new keeper, but its glow never truly leaves the road. It travels with the quiet dignity of a promise—to light the way, to remember, and to remind every traveler that even in deepest dark, there are stories worth carrying forward. Even now, when the market square is loud with traders and tinkers, the torch’s glow settles at the back of my mind like a quiet sunrise on a winter road. It keeps faith with the road and the stories it carries, always.