Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter rests in the palm like a small dawn, its shaft of pale, honey-toned wood bearing the quiet, waxy sheen of something almost alive. The grain runs in soft, forgiving rings, as if the tree had learned to listen to the world rather than resist it. The head is a carved bud, compact and luminous, with a circle of coppery sigils pressed into its surface and a bead of resin that glints amber when magic stirs the air. The whole thing feels warm to the touch, a touch that invites gentle pressure rather than hard force, as though the scepter were a conduit for mercy first and a weapon second. When you tilt it toward the light, the runes catch and release a sigh of pale green, like moss waking at dawn. Lore threads through its texture as if the wood itself remembers hands that once spoke prayers into the forest. Local legends say the Cleric’s Soft Wood was grown near a shrine, nurtured by rain and quiet songs offered by healers who refused to hurry the world’s pain. The tree’s fibers are said to drink the dew of healing rituals, binding protective wards into its heartwood. The scepter’s soft nature—its refusal to flash with boastful power—speaks to a creed that healing is a patient discipline, not a blaze of glory. If the stories are true, those sigils were carved during a vow to guard the vulnerable, to cradle life through long nights of plague and famine, to hold back the dark until a better sun could arrive. In gameplay terms, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Scepter feels like a whisper made solid. It channels restorative energy with a careful, measured pulse, so that nearby allies recover steadily rather than surge in a single, explosive moment. Its wielder can weave a thread of renewal that drifts across the battlefield, refreshing wounded companions and smoothing out the rough edges of skirmishes as if tending a delicate garden amid chaos. The scepter’s glow intensifies when healing magic gathers, and a cautious protector aura seems to extend to those in immediate danger, as if the forest itself leaned in to shade the vulnerable. It isn’t flashy, but it carries a quiet resolve—an instrument that turns care into consequence, turning the tide through patience, defense, and the steady cadence of healing. Prices, of course, drift in markets where stories are traded as eagerly as goods. In the busy corridors near the Saddlebag Exchange, a pristine Cleric’s Soft Wood Scepter can fetch a respectable sum, often hovering between a gold and two, depending on condition, the vividness of the sigils, and the seller’s tale. It is one of those pieces that carries its own history in the wood’s warmth, a tangible reminder that value in this world is not only measured in coin but in the trust and memory a relic can carry. A buyer walks away not only with an item but with a story—of monks who sang to the forest, of healers who chose mercy over triumph, and of a scepter that continues to offer gentle light to a world that sometimes forgets to pause and breathe.