Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force

Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force rests on a worn velvet cushion, its surface catching lamplight with a quiet, deliberate glow. The shaft is pale and smooth, like a twig carved from a tree that grew in candlelight; each inch bears shallow sigils that map the temple's breath. The wood, unmistakably soft to the touch, yields a warm, subtle heat that hums when the scepter is held. The head is a compact orb of cut crystal, ringed by brass filigree that spirals into a flower-like knot. When the sigils awaken, they flare faintly, turning the grip into a whispered channel for power. The lore stitched into its grain speaks of clerics who walked the line between healing and the volatile force that ties life to meaning. One tale says a monk named Liora carved the scepter's head while storms raged over the Shiverpeak ridges, binding the storm's force into a measured hand. Another whispers that the wood absorbed the fear of those who pressed against temple doors in the dark, letting the scepter discharge only when hearts could bear it. Either way, the artifact bears a penalty and a promise: to shield the vulnerable while bending the wind of war just enough to turn a blade aside. It remains a traveling companion as well as a relic, carried by those who have learned to listen to the scepter’s breath rather than only to its bite. In combat, the scepter channels that promise into motion. A pulse from the orb ripples outward, knocking back a foe and laying down a temporary ward over allies. It can shed a beacon of calm, turning a staggered moment into a chance to breathe, to heal, to rally. Its force is not brute; it's a measured gust that clears a path through smoke, a nudge toward safety, a reminder that protection is a craft as precise as any blade. Rogues slip through shadows; wardens and healers stand shoulder to shoulder, the scepter lending a quiet authority that makes a small victory possible even as the larger storm roils on. Markets tell a different story, too. Under rain-stained awnings, the Saddlebag Exchange spreads crates of trinkets, each with a price stitched into a tag—silvered, gilded, or worn. The Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force sits there for a price that echoes its legend: two gold coins plus a handful of silver, perhaps a vial of tincture or a story borrowed from a temple scribe. The vendor’s fingers skim the scepter’s grain as if listening for a breath. I traded a map of caravan routes and a bottle of wind-driven oil, and in return, the stall keeper slid the scepter into my palm, the sigils flickering in approval. By dusk the scepter felt less an object and more a witness—someone who stood at mercy's edge and held the line long enough for a friend to rise. The soft wood’s warmth travels through the fingers, and the world tilts toward a smaller, kinder fight. That is the true charge of Cleric's Soft Wood Scepter of Force: not just a weapon, but a story you carry into the next dawn.