Cleric's Elder Wood Torch

Cleric's Elder Wood Torch rests in my gloved hand, a slender relic carved from elder wood, its grain curling in pale gold rings, the surface smooth as a well-worn prayer book. The head is a shallow brass cup etched with prayers in runic script, catching the flame's glow and throwing a warm halo along the walls. A wick fed by resin beads glows amber, not the biting white of city torches but a softer, almost sacred flame that leans toward the room's corners as if listening for whispers. The finish bears the fingerprints of countless keepers—the lacquered surface absorbing smoke and rain, the scent of resin and old parchment lingering whenever a breeze lifts the flame. When I cradle it, the torch seems to hum with a memory: healers who walked the hushed corridors of ruined chapels, vigilantes who kept watch at river gates, all bound to this little light. Lore says elder wood remembers oaths carved into its heart; to light it is to borrow the blessing of those who kept the vow to heal and to guard. In the right hands, the Cleric's Elder Wood Torch becomes more than a tool; it is a ritual focus, a companion that steers the faithful through shadowed ritual sites and the echoing halls of forgotten crypts. Its glow does not scorch, it clarifies—revealing faint sigils etched into stone, decoding runes that speak only when the flame is near. In a coordinated party, the torch whispers courage to the frontline, steadies the nerves of those who chant blessing over sacked shields, and coaxes a soft healing warmth that travels with the group like a friend’s steady hand. On market days, I’ve watched a trader lift the torch from a peg by the temple steps and stroke the brass head as if reassuring an old friend. The price is whispered in copper and silver, a fair sum for a relic that can turn a perilous ascent into a survivable climb. The chalkboard behind the stall lists twenty-five silver, with room to bargain for the right buyer, and the name of Saddlebag Exchange appears on a hand-drawn placard as if to remind buyers that value shifts with who holds the torch when the night grows long. It is sometimes said that the true value of such a relic lies not in coin but in the story it carries—a story of pilgrimage, of a healer who learned to balance mercy with resolve, and of a road-worn adventurer who learns to trust a humble flame. By dusk, the Cleric's Elder Wood Torch flickers and holds, a steady pulse in the chest of the world. The road ahead brightens, not with conquest, but with the small, stubborn light that refuses to yield to darkness, and somewhere a companion raises their own torch in answer, carrying the memory forward for those who will follow.