Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Air

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Air lies in my hand like a pale stalk of dawn, its shaft carved from soft, warm wood that bears a fine satin sheen and a whisper of resin in the grain. The head, a small brass cup etched with a wind rune, cradles a thick linen wick that holds and hisses with a patient flame. The glow is a pale blue-white, not fierce but ever-present, as if the flame itself were listening rather than roaring. A brass ferrule runs around the top, and a thin leather thong anchors the base, so you can loop it over a belt or cradle it against your palm. It feels light, almost breathable, and the texture—soft wood under polished skin, cool metal at the rim, the waxy scent of softened pine—tells a tale of careful hands and quiet prayers. Lore says clerics who tended the wind shrines kept such torches near their altars, believing the soft wood could drink in the cool of the air and breathe out messages in a way other flames could not. The “Air” in its name is not a mere flourish but a blessing: a conduit for prayers carried on drafts, a beacon that seems to tug on wandering currents and guide them toward the right door, the right sigil, the right way home. In the old rites, torches like this were laid on braziers to stir the air spirits into listening, to coax a whisper from the stones themselves. It is a relic of careful, patient faith, one that glows with the hush of a chapel after rain. In the field, the torch earns its keep beyond mere illumination. Its light pierces the oppressive dark of cavern mouths and ruined hallways, revealing graffiti and sigils that would hide from a lantern’s glare. The pale flame casts strange shadows that seem to rearrange themselves as you move, as if the air itself were an audience watching your progress. Used near ritual braziers, it can kindle a momentary resonance that clears a shallow fog of enchantment, allowing you to read an ancient script or call a breeze to steady a climbing path. For a cleric leaning into wind-and-heal builds, the torch is a companion that harmonizes with the rhythm of air—enhancing focus, sharpening perception, and reminding those who walk with you that even the smallest flame can bend a doorway open in the right moment. The market has seen this torch travel far and wide, and its value shifts like a wick in a draft. I learned this firsthand at a sun-warmed stall near the marketplace river, watching a careful merchant weigh the Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Air beside a ledger bound in blue wax. Saddlebag Exchange, it turns out, is the steady hand behind most such relics—curated, fair, and mindful of the torch’s dual nature: it’s both tool and talisman. The clerk spoke of a price that reflected its rarity and its practical promise; not every day does a flame of wind with a cleric’s blessing come to market. In the end, a modest trade was struck, a few coins and a story that would travel with the torch from town to ruin, from dawn-lit street to wind-swept shrine. So the Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Air sits once more in its keeper’s grip, a quiet thing that glows with the memory of prayers and the promise of a pathway through darkness. It is not merely a tool; it is a thread in the world’s fabric, a small beacon that invites travelers to listen to the air and follow where it leads.