Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter rests in the palm, a piece of quiet in a world of clamor. The shaft is pale and warm, the grain curled like a river at dawn, sanded to a satin-smooth finish that still carries a faint whisper of resin and pine. The head is a rounded knob of the same soft wood, capped with a brass ring and inlaid with a lattice of tiny runes that catch the light when you tilt it just so. A worn blue cloth is wound near the butt, frayed and weathered by prayers spoken in alleys and chapels. Its texture maps its travels: soft to the touch yet stubborn enough to keep its shape. Scent—cedar and wet earth—must be smelled to be believed. Lore-wise, it speaks of humility before power: a tool carved by novice hands in the Lantern Temple, meant for healers who favor mercy over harm. The scepter's glow is a promise rather than a strike; pressed toward a wound or a weary ally, it breathes a pale light that seals minor injuries and builds a hedge of resilience around the bearer. In quieter moments, its runes shimmer with sigils for shelter, renewal, and breath, a ritual shorthand the devoted keep in the field. In play, it is a conduit for healing and protection, a way to reach allies without entering the fray. When restorative energy flows, the staff blooms with light along its grain, as if sap rises in celebration. It is not the kind of weapon that cleaves towers of stone, but it acts as a polite tutor in combat: guiding the healer's hand to grant a shield to an ally, to send a ray that stitches torn life, to raise a circle of calm that slows the marching fear in a skirmish. Scholars and field medics prize it for reliability and the soft, ceremonial cadence of its casting. In a village under siege, such a scepter becomes a thread in a larger story—one where mercy and memory hold their ground. Prices drift, and Saddlebag Exchange is where many of those stories pass hands: a decent Soft Wood Scepter can be found for a modest silver or two, while a pristine, moon-touched example can command more. Yet across winter stalls and dusty backrooms, the scepter remains less a status symbol than a reminder—that healing is an act of stubborn grace, and that every carved grain is a reminder of lives saved, one soft light at a time. And when the lanterns are lit and the market quiets, the scepter's patient glow lingers in the memory of those it sheltered, long after the temple doors close. That is how the Soft Wood Scepter travels—from palm to palm, leaving a thread of healed stories in its wake.