Carrion Elder Wood Torch

The Carrion Elder Wood Torch sits in the palm, a relic that seems to have wandered out of an old campfire tale. Its shaft is carved from pale elder wood, grain pressed like cracked bone, with knots that catch the light and whisper when you tilt it. A scorch-dark seam runs along the length, where a band of churned iron holds a small bowl that cradles the flame. The outer surface wears a simmering patina, as if decades of rain and dust were pressed into its skin. The head glows a pale, almost sickly green, the fire within licking at the air with a slow patience. Sigils loop around the handle and toward the bowl, etched in careful, patient strokes; you can read them only when the light catches just right, as if the wood itself remembers what it has burned. Locals tell of the Carrion Elder tree, a grove born on margins—where marsh fog clings to scavenger lands and night birds forage among fallen branches. Carved by hands that have learned to live with rot and renewal, the torch is said to carry a whisper of that place: it does not merely illuminate, it reveals. Travelers claim the green flame gathers the scent of rain and old graves, turning away the bolder insects and, some say, guiding the footsteps of those who tread lightly through grave-moss and slippery roots. In camp its glow keeps the gnats at bay and lends a sense of steadiness, as if the world itself pauses to listen to the stories etched into the wood. Its usefulness spills beyond warmth and light. In the field, the Carrion Elder Wood Torch acts as a lighthouse for travelers crossing forgotten trackways, a signal to fellow caravans that a site is secured, or a quiet beacon for a patient hunter waiting for the night to thin. The emerald flame seems to make tracks glimmer in the mud, footprints becoming legible again after a storm. And in the lore-saturated corners of the map, it is tied to rites of remembrance, where old hands trace the sigils and thank the grove for safe passage, for turning away disease and malice with a ward of light. Practically speaking, it’s a durable, reusable light source that can be carried on long journeys, a small ritual tool when a momentary boundary between fear and courage must be crossed. On a breezy morning, I stopped at a busy stall where traders pelted the day with chatter. The Saddlebag Exchange crowd pressed around a case where these torches rested beside spools of cord and jars of salve. The luminescent green glow drew curious glances, and the price drifted with the flame’s temperament—bright and steady would fetch more silver, while a duller burn would find a fairer share of copper. The vendor teased a tale about a caravan who traded its last feast for one well-traveled torch, and the story felt earned, as if the torch were already a thread in a larger tapestry of routes, risks, and quiet triumphs.