Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force rests on the glass display, its pale shaft gleaming with a honeyed sheen that catches the light like a quiet sunrise on lacquered wood. The handle lies smooth under the fingers, warmed by years of patient grip, a grain pattern running like a map of quiet prayer. Its head is crowned with a brass band that holds a dark, glassy orb—not crystal clear, but subtly star-flecked, as if a night sky had found a home in the scepter’s crown. Small sigils wind along the length, shallow incisions that catch the light with each turn of the wrist, suggesting a lineage of clerics who once walked in corridors of stone and remembered how to bend force itself to a steady purpose. The scent is faintly resinous, with a touch of beeswax from the days of polishing, as if the scepter were kept in a chapel’s niche and occasionally brushed with a soft cloth by someone who believes in small miracles. There’s a quiet weight to it when you lift, a balance between the wood’s buoyancy and the orb’s cold gravity. The texture shifts with the grip—somewhere between a palm’s warm roughness and a finger’s cool, precise touch—hinting at a weapon that prefers mercy as much as power. Lore says this scepter was forged in the hands of clerics who walked the tensioned boundary between healing and storm. They carved into the soft wood not just for beauty but to press deep, breath-like sigils into the grain, so that each time the scepter was raised, a whisper of order could fold into the air. The Force it channels isn’t brute energy, but a measured, almost lyrical discipline, like a conductor guiding a choir through a crescendo. Tales tell of a time when a village lay under a siege and a single scepter, gripped by a steadfast hand, steadied the fear and opened a path for aid to slip through the wreckage. In practical terms, the scepter is celebrated for its harmony of offense and illumination, a tool that can shield and hasten recovery in the same breath. It crackles with a clean, contained energy, perfect for radiating protective auras that knit bruised communities back together while sending a precise bolt of force into the heart of blight or siege. Healers like to pair it with wards that bloom in the air as if dew had suddenly appeared in a battle-scarred courtyard; it also serves captains of caravans well, because its light can brighten a tent at night and give away no telltale signs of weakness to the outside world. Its true magic, some say, is in how it makes the wielder feel part of something larger—a rhythm of care and courage that travels faster than rumors. Market talk often swirls around such relics, and the Saddlebag Exchange comes up in almost every quiet corner of the road. A trader there once told me the going price sits somewhere around the higher end of gold, clinging to the enchantments and the scribe’s care that kept the sigils legible through countless hands. Bargains dip when the scepter’s aura feels cooler, or when a buyer asks for a stronger ward; the stalls hum with stories, the kind that turn a simple purchase into the opening line of a larger journey. I walk away with the sense that this is more than a possession—it’s a memory of faith made tangible, a reminder that the world still has room for grace, even when the storm is most loud.