Cleric's Soft Wood Focus of Agony

Cleric's Soft Wood Focus of Agony rests on the workshop table like a pale twig carved to hold sorrow. The wood is whisper-thin in places, yet solid where it must be, its grain curling in gentle waves that catch the lamplight with a soft, almost embarrassed glow. The surface is satin-smooth from years of handling, ridges brushed away by patient palms until it feels more like a relic you could cradle than a tool you wield. Along its length, sigils are etched with a discipline that seems to hum in the hollow of a palm. Latticework runes braid around a single inlaid thorn of deep red, a stubborn bead of color that refuses to fade, and at the butt the grain crowds close, as if the wood itself leans in to listen. The air around it smells faintly of resin and rain, a scent that carries with it rumor and memory, as if the focus remembers every patient who ever leaned on it for mercy. Lore, of course, clings to such things like moss to a stone. The Soft Wood Focus of Agony was born in a monastery where the carpenters believed pain could be tempered by patient touch and shared ritual. They spoke of a tree that grew only at the edge of a battlefield, its pale heartwood soaking up fear and blood until it shone with a pale light when invoked by healing hands. When the talisman was shaped and blessed, it carried a paradox: tenderness without oblivion. The focus could cradle a wound in warmth, but it would not forget the hurt—rather, it learned to transmute a portion of that hurt into a shield for a comrade. In the mouths of priests and wardens, the artifact became both symbol and instrument: a reminder that mercy requires endurance, that healing sometimes asks you to bear the ache of others long enough for them to breathe again. In practice, the focus feels alive when you lift it. There is a tremor, a quiet thrumming, as if the wood speaks in a voice only the afflicted could hear. When a healer channels a prayer through it, the signs along the grain awaken, releasing a wave of calm that wraps allies in a pale, forgiving light. It tightens the threads of protection around a skittering skirmish, and it is said to intensify the potency of agony-based conditions laid upon foes, turning their own pain into a counterweight that steadies the party’s pulse. Those who wield it learn to balance mercy with resolve, letting the glow guide their hands as much as their hearts. Prices drift through the markets like distant bells, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where most storytellers hear the numbers. A seller with keen eyes will murmur a price that wobbles between six and eight silver, depending on the day’s moods and the condition of the inlaid thorn. I watched a traveler trade a small bundle of rare tallow and a map fragment for it, the kind of trade that feels almost ceremonial, as if the exchange itself were a quiet sermon. In the end, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Focus of Agony isn’t just a weapon against pain; it’s a token of endurance, a story you carry forward as you walk into the next lit doorway, hoping to heal some sorrows before they harden into stone.