Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Life

The Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Life rests in the palm of a weathered glove, its handle carved from pale, knot-marked softwood that slips coolly against the skin. The grain curls like fern fronds, and every groove seems to catch a memory of rain and pine. A band of blackened brass coils around the mouth, holding a wick that looks as ancient as the forest itself. Along the shaft, runes are burned into the wood—spirals and sigils that glow faintly when the flame is kindled, as if the torch remembers a pact spoken long ago beneath a winter sky. When it burns, the flame spits a small, steady glow, casting a honeyed amber light that feels almost alive, and the air around it carries a faint scent of resin and smoke, like a camp tucked into a sleeping grove. Lore circles the torch like a whispering wind. Berserkers, those fierce scouts who carved steel from silence and storm, are said to have traded their rage for ritualized fire, binding the life of the forest into wood that would never surrender to dark. This particular torch, though, is more than a weapon’s prop or a mere beacon in the night. The Life suffix is a promise—that the flame is tempered by living magic, a conduit between wyrd wood and the breath of green things. In the tales told around waystations and campfires, it’s said that the torch does not merely illuminate; it invites life to linger in the light with you, coaxing a tender pulse of vitality in those who stand near it when the cold settles in. On the practical side, the torch feels like a companion more than a tool. In the tight corridors of ruined watchtowers and moss-drenched caverns, its glow slices through shadows that would swallow a traveler whole. Worn paths in the dark reveal themselves—hidden doors, pressure plates, a glint of metal where a sigil has been etched into stone. The flame’s warmth makes maps feel more alive, as if the ink might rise from parchment and walk you toward safety. It isn’t simply about visibility: the Soft Wood Torch of Life seems to hum with a quiet hope, a reminder that even in the stubborn stillness of night, there is a path forward when someone holds to the light. Market stories weave into the journey as well. I’ve watched traders drift along the market lanes, swapping tales and trinkets, listening for the chime of a collector’s purse. At Saddlebag Exchange, the condition and lore of such a torch carry weight beyond its glow. A good one—well preserved, with its life-rune intact—can fetch a sturdy handful of silver, sometimes more if a buyer believes it will lead them to a hidden grove or a forgotten sanctum. The price is never just metal; it’s the belief that the wood remembers, that the flame remembers, and that someone will walk a mile under a moonlit sky with this small, living light in hand. So I carry it on my belt, tucked against the ribs of my leather pack, the torched wood warm to the touch, the sigils glowing faintly as if listening to the heartbeats of travelers. In this world, where every shadow hints at a story, the Berserker’s Soft Wood Torch of Life keeps faith with the old promises: light, life, and a stubborn glimmer of courage to guide you through the night.