Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Hobbling

The Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Hobbling gleams with a honeyed light, a slender staff carved from a living shade of pale maple that feels almost warm to the touch. Its shaft is smooth as a pebble in a clear stream, the grain running in tight, praying lines along its length. The head is a small octagonal cap, inlaid with a pale green stone that flickers when near unrest; runes coil around the base like vines, catching the glint of lanterns and the breath of night. A band of softly etched brass encircles the grip, worn smooth by ages of patient wielding. The wood has a scent of resin and rain, as if it carried a memory of forests long after the cleric's boons had faded from the altar. Legends say the scepter was carved by a cleric who believed in binding malice with gentleness, that hobbling spirits rather than shattering them would show the world a better path. The Hobbling enchantment is said to tether a foe's feet to the stone of the earth, slowing movement and interrupting the stride of aggression, while the cleric channels healing energy into allies rather than bone-breaking harm. In quiet rooms, the scepter hums with a soft green glow when a healing rite is spoken, as though the wood remembers every vow whispered in its presence. The weapon is more tool than weapon, a bridge between mercy and necessity, a reminder that power can restrain as deftly as it can destroy. In the field, those who carry the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Hobbling rarely wave it as a show of force; they use it to carve space for the vulnerable, to buy time for healers to slip through or for allies to slip away behind a pillar. It's a weapon that rewards patience, weaving with spirits and sigils to extend a fight until help arrives or a route opens. In larger lore, the scepter ties back to a forgotten rite in which the cleric bound the scepter to the land itself, letting the woods and stone speak through its wood when the world grows too loud with war. Where such relics surface, traders trade stories as eagerly as coin. At Saddlebag Exchange, under a canvas awning that smells of wax and old leather, a dealer will name a price that shifts with the tide of demand—the momentary hush of the crowd, the scarcity of similar items, the season's urgencies. Some days it brings a handful of silver; other days, a barter of scrolls, bandages, and salt. The scepter's value is as much a tale as a tool, and in that market, the cleric’s quiet business of restraint becomes a thread in the wider tapestry: a promise kept, a foe slowed, a path opened for those who follow. To cradle the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Hobbling in the palm is to sense the weight of restraint, a stewardship of power that belongs to stories as much as to battles. Still, in the quiet between clashes, the scepter reminds all who hold it that restraint can be a decisive weapon.