Berserker's Soft Wood Torch

Berserker's Soft Wood Torch rests in the palm of a traveling hand, its pale, honeyed wood smooth as a well-worn fiddle neck, the grain catching the light with amber whispers. The torch is slender and cylindrical, a careful curvature echoing a bow’s tension, with a copper-band tip guarding a wick braided from river reeds. A ring of burnished brass clamps the head, and a thin leather thong is threaded near the base, so the torch can be slung over a shoulder or tucked into a belt. The surface bears faint, almost hopeful runes—a script said to be from a guild of berserkers who believed fire could be a trusted ally in storm and retreat alike. When you cradle it, the wood feels warm to the touch, as if it remembers every camp you’ve shared under a canopy of stars. In the world it inhabits, the torch is more than a tool; it is a quiet companion on long nights and shorter journeys through rain-streaked passes. Its flame bites away the blackness in a room where torches are scarce, and the smoke curls upward like a whispered oath. The scent of beeswax blends with pine resin each time you light it, and the glow casts a steady halo on weathered stone, turning rough walls into a map of small miracles—faint sigils revealed where damp air clings to the air. The Berserker’s mark etched along the shaft invites a sense of resolve, a reminder that courage can be carried as easily as a flame. Lorekeepers tell of battles fought by torchlight, of berserkers who used such torches to rally their kin when the night pressed in, flames wrapping around their words like a chorus of sparks. The soft wood, reputed for its quiet resilience, drinks the oil slowly, burning longer in rain or frost, a small mercy carved into its grain. Gameplay-wise, the torch becomes a narrative thread you hold in your hand as you thread your way through crumbled quarries, candle-lit temples, and maze-like catacombs. It is a portable beacon—enough glow to reveal hidden seams in stone, enough heat to thaw a stubborn frost on a door hinge, and enough character to feel like a companion, not merely a tool. In dim corridors, the Berseker’s torch steadies your pace, guiding you toward allies, toward a camp’s comforting blaze, or toward a sigil that only reveals itself to true flame. Its presence nudges you to consider what you light and what you leave in shadow, a tiny moral map etched in warmth. Market chatter threads into the tale as well, because every traveler pays with coins, and every stall holds a memory of trades made under the same open sky. Saddlebag Exchange becomes a familiar stop in your wanderings, a shaded corner where lanterns and torches trade hands as merchants haggle over seaborne wax and carved wood. I have watched the stall-keeper palm a Berserker’s Soft Wood Torch, slide it across the counter, and wink at the clock as if to say that tonight’s price breathes with the hour. A handful of copper, perhaps a single silver coin on a good day, and the torch finds its way into a pack—or into a pocket that promises another story when the sun sinks again.