Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony

The Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony rests in the palm like a relic salvaged from a chapel's heart, its pale ash grain curling into a living lattice that seems to breathe with every motion. The shaft is smooth as lake glass, a satin finish catching the light with each wrist turn, while sigils burned into a cooler-black resin thread along its length glow a quiet blue when moonlight touches them. The head is a bulbous knob of darker sapwood, carved with intertwined vines and a tiny mouth of riven ivory; at its apex sits a small, faceted bead that holds a barely spoken ember, as if a whispered oath lives there, waiting to be summoned. Touch is a cool reminder of distance and mercy, the texture both forgiving and precise, like a blade of light cut from a prayer. Lore clings to it as tightly as the scent of resin on damp wood. The scepter was wrought by the Sisters of the Veil, a clerical order that moved through shrines hidden along caravan routes, binding pain into protection. They taught that agony, when shaped with intent, could become a shield as well as a salve: a language spoken not with words, but with the tremor of energy pressed through the wood. In their annals, the Agony Scepter is described as a conduit for mercy that does not forget the world’s wounds—a tool for guiding suffering toward healing rather than letting it fester in silence. In daylight it seems almost serene; under a crescent moon it hums with a pale gravity, as if the forest itself leans closer to listen. In battle, the scepter makes its case as more than a ceremonial curio. It behaves like a living instrument for a healer who refuses to pretend pain does not exist. A practiced wielder can release a narrow pulse that knits minor wounds and steadies the breath of those nearby, while a secondary weave etches a circle of pale brightness that absorbs a portion of incoming damage and redirects a fraction of that energy into a cleansing radiance. The longer a line of people moves under its influence, the more the space between fear and courage tightens; allies feel steadier in their steps, enemies pause as if listening for a distant bell, and the world itself seems to slow enough for mercy to take root again. The scepter is a story you carry with you, a reminder that the world’s pain can be guided rather than denied. Its presence speaks of pilgrimage, of ruined chapels and repaired oaths, of clerics who believed that healing begins with truth—that suffering is not a debt to be ignored but a charge to be stewarded. Even the market’s chatter can’t quite drown the quiet ache of its legacy, a tale told in wood and glow and the soft, patient clack of beads. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders and travelers swap relics and rumors alike, the Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony is not merely a collectible but a living negotiation. A seasoned dealer will lay it on the counter, price tagged in coins that glint like frost on dawn-quiet rivers—often around two gold and some silver, the value tying to provenance and the whisper of its wear. A careful buyer learns to read the grain, the glow, the bead’s dim patience, negotiating not just for power, but for a place where mercy and pain can walk side by side once more.