Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Vision

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Vision sits in a dented iron sconce by the campfire, its shaft a pale, honeyed grain that has been polished smooth as river stone. The wood bears a quiet, living warmth, as if it remembers the touch of countless hands that carved grooves into its surface for grip and ritual. A thin strip of brass glides along the top, catching the glow, while a delicate sigil is burned into the wood with careful, patient strokes—a circle of eyes that seems to watch the dark itself. The wick is wrapped in resin-soaked tinder, and when lit, the flame crawls up with a soft, blue-tinted light that refracts through a small, smoky lens in the torch’s head, throwing halos on the ground like dawn caught in glass. In the right hands, the torch is more than lantern and warmth; it is a translator of shadows. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Torch of Vision feeds the night with clarity, revealing sigils etched on stone, hidden doors that slide with a sigh, and the faint gleam of footpath signs that only the weary can find. It does not summon miracles, but it tunes perception to a sharper frequency, turning confusion into coordinates and peril into a map. Old elders speak of a time when vision was a birthright of those who tended the flame, and this torch—carved from wood that grows where seasons listen—carries a fragment of that ancient directive: see what the night prefers to hide. Travelers spin their stories around the flame, and the torch threads its way into the daily life of the road. In ruins where lanterns fail, it becomes the hinge between fear and function, guiding a caravan through crumbling arches and moss-slick stairways. Puzzles that once required a dozen hands now yield to a single careful gaze, while corridors that seem to loop back upon themselves unravel in a pattern only the flame seems to trust. It is a tool in the hands of mercy—illumination for the lost, warning of counterfeit sigils, a steady companion for scouts and healers who walk the narrow edges of danger. In the hands of a whisper-quiet hunter, it is a beacon for the fallen, and in the hands of a devoted pilgrim, a reminder that truth often travels through light, not through noise. The market hums with such stories as the torch passes between stalls. Saddlebag Exchange—that bustling row of canvas and chalked boards—offers a price that feels right for a relic of practical magic and lineage. Traders trade coins and cautious glances, weighing the wood’s age against the glow’s promise, the sigil against the weight of memory. Some buyers prize it for the lore woven into its grain, others for its utility in a night march through a drumming rain. A merchant who has weathered many drops of fortune will murmur that the price reflects both craft and quest—the attention of a few clerics and the settled trust of a dozen roads that still lead toward light. As the flame settles to a thoughtful blue, the torch seems to sigh with the road itself, a small lighthouse for the tired and true. Its glow folds into the march, quiet as a vow, bright as a revelation, and in that glow there’s a promise: that even in the darkest passages, a careful eye and a steady hand can turn shadow into direction, fear into purpose, and a simple piece of soft wood into a guiding star.