Honed Soft Wood Scepter of Fire

The Honed Soft Wood Scepter of Fire catches the candlelight, its shaft a pale sapwood that gleams like a kept promise. The grain runs fine as a whispered secret, and the surface bears a patina of wax and oil that makes it slick. The head is a compact orb of darker wood, encasing a shy ember core that glows faintly through a lattice of carved runes. Thin channel lines trace along the shaft, not decorative so much as a trail for heat to travel, and the ends are wrapped in a ring of brass that warms the palm when its magic stirs to life. It feels almost organic, as if the wood remembers every spark it has carried and the stories of hands that gripped it. The lore murmurs that this scepter was forged in a workshop perched above a hot spring, carved from the softest pines brought down by a crew who believed fire could be coaxed into patient companionship rather than ruthless triumph. The ember within is said to be born from a star, tamed by careful terms spoken in whispered old dialects. When you hold it, you sense a lineage of flame, a promise that heat can be a guide as well as a weapon. In play, the Honed Soft Wood Scepter of Fire answers that second impulse with grace. Its user bearings bring fire attunements into quick, precise action: a flick of the wrist sends a stream of searing light along a diagonal arc; a second gesture bores a ring of molten energy that clings to foes, forcing capture and sealing them within a burning pocket. The scepter's true value lies not just in raw damage but in its choreography with allies and terrain: wards can be brushed aside, doors can be lit from a distance, and a pocket of heat won’t evaporate under rain; it lingers, teasing enemies into missteps as you press the tempo of a skirmish. In the larger tapestry, such tools become talismans—knotted links between smiths, traders, and travelers who pass border towns where caravans exchange stories as eagerly as coins. You hear about it during a council in a harbor tavern, or a night market where lanterns quiver and the scent of resin hangs in the air. Markets, of course, move with their own breath. A merchant pointed me toward Saddlebag Exchange, where listings for the Honed Soft Wood Scepter of Fire shift with trade winds—one day it’s marked at three gold and a handful of silver, another at a leaner two gold, depending on how many embers still glow within the core. Buyers circle, bargaining with the same calm caution you’d expect from a craftsman weighing whether to swap a swifter strike for a longer, steadier burn. By dusk, the scepter has found a new owner, or at least a new chapter, and the story continues to crackle along the docks, in the market stalls, and in the quiet rooms where flame and wood decide to write themselves into the night.