Strong Soft Wood Scepter of Venom

Strong Soft Wood Scepter of Venom lies on a sun-warmed desk, its shaft a smooth, honeyed sap-wood that catches light in quiet ripples along the grain. The head is a serpent's hood carved in relief, punctuated by a thin vein of venom-green resin that gleams like a beetle wing when the lamp catches it. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, copper wire spiraling around to keep the balance precise, so that a hurried swing feels like a careful whisper. The whole thing carries the scent of resin, cedar smoke, and something sharper—the memory of a forest's bite. Old stories say it was forged at the river's edge long ago where venomous plants grew bright as lanterns, traded by a recluse who moved between river docks and temple markets. The maker reportedly bound the plant's stubborn sting into the wood, so that every strike could carry not just force but a patient memory of pain. When the scepter is raised, the venom within seems to glow a touch brighter, as if listening to the blood in the veins of its bearer. In play the scepter hums with that history. A practiced wrist lets it coat each strike with poison, not in a single flash but a slow, corrosive kiss that builds over the next few seconds. Foes feel their rhythm falter as damage drips out, and allies who read the field tune their own skills to synchronize with the lingering toxin. It is the kind of myth in motion: not a crush of raw power, but a measured, creeping thing that reshapes the fight by turning space into a corridor of risk for those who rush in. In the right hands it can soften a boss's guard or touch a wandering skirmish with a cloud of green breath that buys time for a rescue or a retreat. Market talk circles a tent at Saddlebag Exchange, where jars clink and coins exchange hands with the rustle of cloth. The scepter's fame travels as quickly as its venom, and its price rides that rumor. Traders barter stories as much as metal, trading a tale for a chance to pass it along. Yesterday I watched a veteran inksmith express the item's value in a language of lines and scars, and the dealer nodded as if hearing history itself. The tally on a chalkboard pegged the tag to somewhere between four and seven gold, depending on whether the buyer could prove field-tested potency or spin a heroic yarn about its last use. Whether a wanderer seeks a rite of passage or a reliable goad in spearpoint skirmishes, Strong Soft Wood Scepter of Venom sits close to the heart of the legend. Each owner adds a line to the story, every corridor of leather and resin soaking up another heartbeat. It travels, as all good relics do, from hand to hand, until the world begins to believe in the smile of venom-green edge and the wood that remembers how to sting.