Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter rests in the palm of a gloved hand, its wood pale as winter ash, the grain a quiet map of years. The shaft is slender, smoothly sanded, the surface almost like lacquered bone, warm to the touch and faintly resinous. The head curls into a gentle crescent motif, carved in low relief, with copper filigree tracing the veins of the wood. A tiny glass bead sits at the tip of the crescent, catching the light and blooming like a dawn star when the firelight hits right. The scent of sap is there, not cloying but honest, as if the grove itself lent its breath to this weapon. The scepter feels alive, as if the tree whispered a patient history into the hands that hold it. Lore wise, the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter is said to come from the Whispering Grove, a sanctuary where healers tended pilgrims battered by road and storm. It was said to be carved by a single artisan who bound his own heartbeat to the wood, so that every use would carry a quiet pulse of mercy. In the old stories, when a healer raises this scepter, the air grows lighter, and sigils etched along the shaft flare with pale green light — not flame, but a careful warmth that steadies a panicking party and lends focus to their prayers. On the field, it functions like a breath you can hold in your hand. It doesn't carve a bloody path; it opens a path for those who are fading. Gentle healing bursts knit wounds together, shields of pale energy rise to guard allies, and the signature crest of the scepter glows when a true blessing is spoken. In the right hands it becomes the hinge of a larger ritual: a moment when pace, purpose, and protection align, turning a march through ash and rain into a procession toward dawn. The scepter's wood seems to remember the touch of a healer's palm, and that memory translates into calm, surgical care in the heat of combat or the stillness of a late-night camp. Prices in the market have a story too. I found it at Saddlebag Exchange, a compact stall tucked between a know-it-all cartographer and a cheerful tinkerer. The shopkeeper eyed the scepter with reverence and asked for a price that made sense only to those who understand the trade of trust. It listed at around twelve silver, but with a practiced charm he let it go for a touch less after a quick barter—nine silver, a sum that felt like a bargain for a relic that could hold a village's prayers in its grain. The exchange itself—bottled gossip and the clatter of coin—made clear that objects like this travel far, taking a thread of memory from one caravan to the next, from healer to healer, from crisis to counsel. So I walked away lighter than I came, the scepter warm in my sleeve, a quiet promise that mercy travels with those who carry it.