Rampager's Soft Wood Scepter of Fire

Rampager's Soft Wood Scepter of Fire rests on a sun-warmed workshop bench, its handle a pale, honeyed curve of soft wood that seems almost too gentle to be a weapon. The grain swirls like smoke caught in amber, and the surface bears a burnished sheen that whispers of long days spent polishing faith into form. A ring of coppery filigree coils around the head, where a small orb glows with a steady ember-light, as if a contained campfire has been coaxed into a scepter’s crown. Along the shaft, runes are chipped with time, marks that read more as a map of heat than letters—fire-lore from a long-forgotten Rampager who carved with care rather than steel. When you lift it, the wood gives a reassuring creak, a reminder that this is a thing meant to be pressed into service, not merely admired. Locals say its creation took root in the shadow of a living volcano, where a Rampager once tracked a rogue heat-wraith and bound its temper into wood and flame. The scepter’s fire feels like a pact: the wood’s life braided with ember magic, a relic trusted to those who walk with risk and flame. Some tell of a caravan of wanderers who traded stories as fiercely as they trade goods, passing the scepter along only after the bearer proves themselves through small trials—guiding a night trek through ash, or standing watch as a market blazed. The soft wood is believed to breathe in warmth, to respond to courage: when the wielder’s resolve grows strong, the ember glows brighter and the runes shimmer as if listening. In the right hands, it becomes a beacon in the smoke, a signal flare for allies and a warning to enemies. In the heat of a skirmish, the scepter becomes more than ornament. It channels fire-born energy through a practiced wrist, guiding a disciplined, ritual tempo rather than a wild rush. For an elemental practitioner, it accelerates a fire-warded rotation, letting embers leap from the wood with a satisfying snap and leaving behind wisps that cling to foes in a scorched kiss. It carves light into corridors of shadow, turning dark hallways into lanes of purpose where the ground itself seems to sigh with warmth. The scepter also serves as a quiet talisman in negotiations and nights in the field; its glow draws the eye of veterans who recognize the lineage, and it steadies nerves when tempers flare as surely as it fans them into action. In battle, it’s both tool and story—an artifact that narrates the wearer’s progress through battles won and tests endured. I found it in a cluttered stall just outside the old market plaza, where the road winds through chalk and clay and the scent of resin-heavy lumber. The trader spoke softly of demand and rarity, and we traded glances that felt like a tacit agreement to let the piece speak for itself. The price, he admitted, could vanish with the wind, so we walked the line of value until I agreed to take it to Saddlebag Exchange for appraisal. There, the solemn gazes of the masters weighed its glow and its wood, and they offered a fair reckon—roughly a gold-and-a-quarter in coin, with a bundle of trade goods that would ease a night’s journey for a family or a small clutch of mats for a crafter’s table. It felt right to let the market breathe around it, to see how a world of merchants and wanderers would cradle a weapon that remembers fire and forest in equal measure.