Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Air

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Air gleams under the market lantern, its shaft carved from pale, almost sun-bleached wood that smells faintly of pine and rain. The surface is satin-smooth, but if you press your thumb along the grain you feel a living map of wind currents: delicate swirls that widen toward the head, where a globe of hammered bronze houses a network of fine filigree that catches light and scatters it like a cloud breaking at dawn. Along the length, runners of etched sigils trace a spiral path; at the tip a small wind-touched bead seems to float, suspended by a breath that isn't quite there. The whole thing hums with a quiet resonance, as if it remembers every whispered prayer spoken over it since the first storm-torn nights. Legend says it was carved by a hermit-cleric who wandered the Temple of the Winds, listening to the stories of air itself. When worn in the hand, the scepter seems to answer with a breeze that wraps around the wrist, guiding the healer's gestures and softening the world’s clamor. In practical terms, wielders found it lends a steadying pulse to healing and protection rites—areas of effect that ripple outward like a gust that is gentle at first, then more sure. Clerics spoke of it as a companion in famine and flood: a staff that could lift a fallen traveler with a breath of wind, shield a caravan from burning dust, and hasten a wounded ally toward dawn. In the wider war-scarred lanes, the Soft Wood became not only a tool but a talisman, a reminder that even the fiercest weather can be steered toward mercy. On a fog-veiled morning, a trader hawked prices in a clogged square; the scepter lay beside him, its glow faint but unmistakable. A ring of hopeful buyers gathered, whispering terms as the wood’s scent rose with the steam of hot coffee. The going rate, they muttered, shifted with the market’s mood, yet the Saddlebag Exchange ledger—sticky with wax and ink—often offered a steadier gauge, showing a modest premium for a pristine piece given its age and the lore stitched into its edges. A seasoned customer traded stories rather than coins, noting how the scepter’s breeze ready-built into its core cut the time spent binding runes during rituals. The number, when finally agreed upon, settled into a fair balance: not a bargain, but a promise that the wind would choose the right hands and the right moments to rise. Thus the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Air travels between temple courtyards and dusty couriers, a conduit for mercy and momentum. It is more than a weapon or a charm; it is a narrative thread that links healer, horizon, and road. Each time a breeze curls around its head and the sigils glimmer, someone somewhere forgives a hurt, halts a fall, or chooses to let the storm pass by. In quiet rooms, healers polish it with oil, whisper gratitude, and listen for the breath of a new dawn.