Berserker's Elder Wood Torch

The Berserker's Elder Wood Torch rests in my palm like a carved totem, its head a living ember that glows with a fierce, dusk-red radiance and the grain of elder wood curling around runes that seem to sigh when you tilt it just so. The shaft is smooth and cool to the touch, lacquered to a satin finish that catches the light in flakes of gold and copper. You can hear the faint crackle of old battles in its tone, as if the flame remembers every roar of the night when warriors once rode the mountain passes, torch in hand, chasing ghosts with nothing but courage and a blade’s edge. Its weight sits perfectly, not heavy enough to drag the wrist, not so light that it feels disposable; this is a weapon and a beacon, a companion for long marches and longer stories. The elder wood—ancient, weathered, definitely not fresh from the mill—carries a scent of resin and rain, a reminder that the world’s fires have to be tended with care as well as fury. The Berserker’s insignia, etched in a chorus of sharp lines along the grip, marks it as gear for those who lean into offense, a promise that a single strike can tip a skirmish and a night’s fortune alike. In the hands of a true berserker, the torch becomes more than illumination; it becomes momentum. Its presence changes fights that would otherwise hinge on patience and timing into a rhythm of wild, unrestrained tempo. The torch’s enchantment leans into Power, Precision, and Ferocity—the Berserker’s trifecta—making each swing and flare hit with a more ferocious edge and a sharper aim. It isn’t a tool for subtlety but for surged momentum: lighting a path through darkness, lighting a rival’s resolve aflame, waking allies with a flare of courage. In the field, you’ll see campfires fed with kindling from pine brush, the hostelry’s glow spilling out onto the cobblestones, and the torch tucked into a sling as a soldier’s heartbeat, a reminder that even in the quiet, a flame still searches for a way forward. It holds a lore thread too—tales tell of elder berserkers who carried such torches into long, shadow-haunted ordeals, where light was both weapon and warrant, a sign that the night could be born anew with the dawn. The market mornings bring quieter math to that story. Traders in the Saddlebag Exchange speak of the Berserker's Elder Wood Torch in hushed, respectful tones, noting its condition and the quality of its runes as if they were stars in a ledger. Prices drift with the wind and the wagons, some days a bargain for those who barter hard; other days it fetches a steadier gold, valued for the glow that never quite settles, for the way a battle can be shifted by a single, decisive flame. It’s easy to see why a buyer would cradle this torch like a keepsake and a weapon at once—because it is both: a story passed from campfire to campfire, a beacon that keeps walking, even when the road runs slick with rain and memory. As I pass it back to the shelf, the torch seems to hum with a familiar resolve, as if it waits for the next night’s march, for the next story to illuminate.