Honed Soft Wood Scepter of Venom glows with a quiet, rain-washed luster, its shaft a pale, almost完soft grain that seems to drink light rather than reflect it. The head, carved into a serpentine leaf motif, curves like a whispered threat, with edges softened by patient hand and time. A thin filament of resin seals the joint between handle and head, catching specks of sun and shadow as you rotate it, releasing a faint citrus musk when the wood warms in your grip. The surface bears micro-scratches from countless trials, each telling a story of narrow escapes and careful, deliberate strikes. Its color shifts from milky ash to a venom-green that runs along the etched runes—glyphs that shimmer when the blade is used to coax life from the forest’s darker corners. Lore says it was tempered in the shade of a venom-hungry grove, blessed by a keeper who learned to listen to the plants as if they were another tongue of the world. When you cradle it, you feel the grove breathe back—the pulse of soft wood, the curl of green poison, and a history that comes with a price. In the hands of a patient wielder, the scepter becomes both companion and chorus. The Venom within is not a single strike but a creeping verdict: a touch that unsettles foes, coaxing their courage to fray while the grove’s old secrets ooze along the blade. It is rumored to channel small, controlled bursts of venom that disrupt the rhythm of an enemy’s stance, a whisper that erodes defense and invites a follow-up that lands with the satisfaction of a well-timed decision. Warriors speak of it as a tool that does not shout, but rather nudges the battlefield toward a memory the wielder already knows—the memory of when risk was paid with a precise, almost ceremonial strike. Healers, too, respect its balance, for the venom is not merely a weapon but a language the wood teaches: a way to steady a charge of fear into a careful, measured release. In a skirmish between rival squads, it’s said the scepter’s touch can buy a moment, a breath—enough for allies to regroup and for the grove’s patient patience to do its quiet work on the wounded earth and spirit alike. The world around it keeps time with the scepter’s legend. Traders speak of it in hushed tones, a rare artifact that still clings to the scent of resin and rain, passing from one hand to the next with stories that blur into one another. When a rider stops at a remote outpost to mend gear and swap tales, the topic inevitably returns to the scepter—how it behaves in the hands of a careful user, how it changes a fight by turning hesitation into opportunity. Prices drift like leaves on a slow current, influenced by rumors and the day’s mood of the market. At the Saddlebag Exchange, the whispers travel as swiftly as dry coin, and an item like this can fetch a price that is as much about the tale as the blade. A curious buyer might hear a tale of the grove and the keeper, of a blade that hums with green light in quiet rooms and in the heat of battle, and walk away with more than a purchase—some to carry, some to remember, all to carry forward in the ongoing story of the world’s living woods.