Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Air

Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Air rests in the palm, its handle carved from pale, almost velvet-soft wood that yields with a sigh when you squeeze it and never quite slips, no matter how slick your gloves are. The head is a compact lantern of smoked glass, its surface catching light and bending it into a pale blue whisper that seems to hover just above the wick. The wick itself is thick and braided with ash-streaked fibers, and when you tilt the lantern, a faint breeze seems to blow along the shaft, as if the torch has learned to listen to the breath in the world. Along the barrel, runes scrawl in quick, angular strokes—zigzags and a lone sigil shaped like a gust of wind—glowing with a soft, almost metallic sheen whenever the flame purrs to life. It looks sturdy enough to survive a raid and touch fragile enough to feel like a secret you’ve earned rather than a prize you’ve taken. There’s a weight to it that feels older than the market day it’s carried through. The Berserker name isn’t merely a boast stamped on the wood; it’s a lineage of survival, a lineage that learned to drink the air as a weapon and a shield. The Soft Wood, prized for its resilience and its quiet memory of rain, keeps the flame steady even when the gale outside your door roars as if it’s trying to prove something. The torch’s lore threads through tavern whispers: a tool first forged for storm-hunters who pressed into open air with nothing but grit and a glimmer of electric wind in their veins. In the hands of a seasoned bearer, the flame doesn’t just light a path; it seems to clear a little space around you, as if the air itself is nudging you forward. In practical terms, the torch is a companion for those who walk after dusk and into damp, echoing caverns. Its light is bright enough to reveal hidden seams in stone, faint glimmering from a loose micro-engraved vein, or the pale dust of old trails long left to the wind. The wind sigil on the shaft isn’t there to look pretty; it hums when the flame dances, giving the bearer a sense of direction amid smoky rooms or rain-slick streets. You can use it to signal a retreat, to illuminate a stealth path, or to coax a quick gust to push a sail on a bleak river crossing, a small mercy when supplies are scarce and the horizon feels a mile away. And in a skirmish, the torch earns its keep as a steady, reliable beacon—enough to keep allied lines in view, enough to mark a safe route through collapsing ruins, enough to remind you that courage can come with something as simple as a steady flame. Prices drift at the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders and travelers trade stories as much as goods. A whisper from a seasoned seller says this torch can fetch a handful of silver or more, depending on the weather and who’s listening to the wind. It’s a price that honors both its utility and its myth, a currency of trust as much as metal. I’ve watched several hands pass it along in exchange for a tale of a long night saved by a stubborn flame and a stubborn heart. The Berserker’s Soft Wood Torch of Air isn’t just a tool; it’s a companion that makes a journey feel possible when the road grows sharp and the night, unkind.