Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Stamina

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Stamina rests on a cushion of linen, its shaft a pale, silken ash color that catches the light with a whisper of polish. The wood feels almost too soft to be weaponized, yet it carries a stubborn warmth, like a lungful of sun-warmed air after rain. Carved sigils coil along the length—vines that twist into small runes—and the grain itself seems to pulse faintly under the palm, as though the sap remembers prayers long whispered in candlelit chapels. The head of the scepter is crowned with a softly faceted stone, a warm amber that glows faintly when endurance is waning, and the metal band at the base hums with a quiet, patient energy. It’s wrapped in a leather holster that has seen years of field service, its stitching dark and durable, the scent of beeswax and resin clinging to the old clothe lining. Lore says this was once a ceremonial wand for a lineage of healers who learned to move with the pace of a caravan: patient, attentive, and unyielding to fear. The soft wood was chosen not for bravado but for gentleness—the kind of wood that wouldn’t shatter the moment it met a stubborn bruise or a clumsy swing in the heat of battle. The scepter’s prayers are etched into its surface, meant to be spoken aloud only when the world quiets, as if the wood itself remembers the cadence of a lullaby that once steadied a frightened camp. In quiet temples and during long marches, it passed from hand to hand, a symbol that stamina is as much about perseverance of spirit as it is about the body’s breath. In everyday play, the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Stamina feels like a companion in the long haul. Its presence is the difference between a skirmish that ends with a single, decisive breath and one that bleeds on, forcing retreat or collapse. In the heat of a siege or a strenuous rally, the scepter Bathes its bearer in a subtle aura that slows the drain of endurance, nudges recovery along when pace would finally outstrip will, and sharpens the focus of healing prayers so they land with quiet certainty. It does not transform a healer into a miracle worker, but it steadies the hands that mend—keeps the fingers from trembling when the frontline pushes harder than the mind can quite accept, and makes every small recovery feel like a deliberate, practiced act rather than a bare chance. Market nights bring a different kind of pulse to the scepter’s story. I found it at Saddlebag Exchange, where the chatter of traders and the clink of coins wrote their own rhythm into the air. The vendor spoke in measured breaths about supply and demand, about how some weeks the amber glow brightens and others it merely glows, cautious and patient. I traded a small pile of traded trinkets—dusty compass pieces, a handful of dried herbs, a promise of future favors—and, after a heartbeat of haggling, walked away with the Cleric’s Soft Wood Scepter of Stamina in my bag. The price wasn’t the point so much as the journey it promised: a steadying beacon for the countless miles, a reminder that endurance, like the wood in its grasp, yields its quiet strength to those who tend it with care. So the scepter rests now in a corner of my pack, a steadying presence that threads through days of marching and evenings of prayer, a story-carrier that reminds us all that stamina is earned one breath at a time.