Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter rests in a pool of afternoon light, the wood pale and warm as a dawn-washed lily. The shaft is slender and smooth to the touch, its grain curling like a quiet river under skin, with a satin sheen that catches the light and refuses to glare. At its head, a bud of ivory-carved wood flares outward, wrapped in a ring of muted brass that has darkened to a quiet bronze. Fine runes are etched along the shaft in a script that seems to hum when the hands draw near, not harsh but almost coaxing. The scepter carries the scent of resin and rain, as if it were carved from a living thing rather than formed in a workshop, a relic that has learned to listen before it speaks. Lore tells of a grove tended by wandering clerics, where trees grew so gently that even the wind paused to listen; from that grove the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter was said to be gifted to healers who tended the sick and spoke softly to the frightened. It is said to respond to compassion, to brighten in the presence of true care, and to dim when cruelty is near. In the hands of a healer, the scepter does not blaze with violence but glows with quiet authority. Its magic is a language of restoration: a touch to the warded, a word spoken in rhythm with the heart, a gentle push that steadies a collapsed conscience as surely as it mends a wound. When used in any healing weave, the scepter shifts the pattern of the spell toward mercy, extending a cleansing aura to cleanse lingering conditions and to knit broken rhythm back into a party’s cadence. To hold it is to feel responsibility tighten, like the grip of a friend who will not abandon you to the night. Its runes also offer restraint to reckless power, guiding bursts of light so they illuminate rather than scorch. The world keeps a patient memory for such things; artisans and pilgrims alike carry whispers of the Cleric’s Soft Wood Scepter as they travel from village square to harbor stall. Its value on the open market is not only measured in coin but in trust—the way a veteran trades a story with a novice, how a keeper of relics earns a place in a crowded room by letting others lean on its calm. In the Saddlebag Exchange, a neat mint can bring around 15 silver, while a collector with a tale to tell might sweeten the deal into something rarer than metal alone. In some buyers wish for the history; others seek its gentleness to temper a rough pack of relics and cargo. And so the scepter travels on, not as a weapon but as a promise: that even a small piece of wood can carry a patient, healing wind into the heart of danger, turning fear into a pause, a breath, a chance to begin again. Its quiet stewardship lingers long after.