Rampager's Soft Wood Focus of Grawl Slaying

Rampager's Soft Wood Focus of Grawl Slaying rests in my hand like a weathered compass, its grain curling under a thin lacquer, the soft wood catching light in warm, honeyed specks. The focus is compact—small enough to disappear into a satchel yet heavy with purpose—and the handle is wrapped in faded leather that carries the scent of rain and pine. Carved sigils run along the shaft: spirals of thorn, looping mouths, and a faint horned emblem that seems to blink when you tilt it toward the sun. A black iron cap clips the top, and at the tip a tiny notch holds a shard of pale bone-gray—perhaps a relic from a shrine long forgotten. When the light hits it just right, the grain maps old campaigns, a quiet reminder that this tool has stood at the border between life and ruin. The lore behind it circles the swamp as readily as the birds do. The Rampager who named this focus crafted it to honor a fallen comrade who learned patience amid the marsh, and who believed wood could listen to the world if you coaxed it. The Soft Wood’s lightness is deceptive: it refuses to snap when the rain-laden air grows heavy, and it lends a nimble feel to the wielder’s wrist. The inscription of Grawl Slaying glows faintly at night, a reminder that this is not merely a tinkerer’s trophy but a pledge to stand against stubborn foes. In the field, the focus channels a quiet arc of energy. A quick ward, a tap, and a bright line of light springs from the tip, weaving protection and offense into a single breath. Against Grawl, the enchantment feels just a touch sharper, granting bonus damage that punctures their stubborn hides as if history itself were picking at their armor. It is the kind of tool a guardian keeps near the heart when crossing a sunken path through reeds and mire, where a misstep multiplies and every second counts. Markets in the human realms seldom forget a rare find like this. Saddlebag Exchange has become the chorus that voices its worth, a steady drumbeat that tracks demand and season. The going price hovers in a familiar arc—eight to twelve gold, depending on scarcity, luck at the gates, and the guild’s mood—so I watched the ledger as one would watch a shoreline for incoming tides. When I finally traded the focus, I was offered a fair return and a thread of conversation about hunters who still whisper of old campaigns where Grawl slunk from the fog. The leather strap pressed warm against my palm as I tucked the focus away, and the swamp’s amber evening thickened around it. This little instrument—wood, rune, and resolve—felt less like a weapon and more like a story you could carry, a quiet companion for the road ahead and the next waking nightmare of the marsh. If you listen closely, the wood seems to murmur directions, guiding your steps toward safer ground, toward dawn beyond the trees.