Berserker's Soft Wood Torch

Berserker's Soft Wood Torch rests in my hand, a pale shaft of soft wood that fits snugly into the palm, the grain curling like a whispered rune along its length. The head is a shallow cone, carved with patient care, its mouth reinforced by a thin copper ring that catches every flicker and throws back a halo of amber light. A strip of tanned leather winds twice around the grip, worn smooth by years of rain and restless nights, giving just enough texture to hold fast when the wind gnaws at the edges of the camp. The wick is trimmed briskly, soaked in stubborn oil that coughs and spits a little as the flame awakens, casting a steady glow that seems almost loyal in the dark. At the butt end, a tiny brass emblem—an abstract berserker mid-charge—gleams faintly, a lore-mark that feels warmer the closer you hold it to your chest after a hard-fought pierce of midnight fog. Lore says these torches were born from the rituals of old berserker orders, a tradition of lighting the way for frontline charges and retreating, stubbornly brave through the long, cold hours of patrol. The soft wood is chosen for its balance—light enough to carry for hours yet sturdy enough to weather a fall from a saddle or a stray spear lash. The runes carved near the base are not mere decoration; they speak of courage, endurance, and the long road home, a reminder that flame can guide as surely as iron. When you cradle it, you feel the flame’s memory—old battles, new doubts, the quiet certainty that a single glow can turn a treacherous march into something survivable. In gameplay, the torch becomes a loyal companion for explorers and scouts, a pocket sun that rinses away cavern shadows and reveals hidden sigils etched into stone walls. Its light floods corridors, lets you read the map notches scuffed into ancient masonry, and keeps flicker-wary beasts at bay with a bright, honest presence. For a Berserker, it’s more than a utility; it’s a morale anchor in the fog of skirmishes, a tangible reminder that courage can be warm and portable. You grip it as you surge forward, the heat pressing into your knuckles, the glow feeding your focus as you choose a line of advance through the broken streets at midnight. If the wind rises, you shoulder the torch and press on, lanternless but not lost, signaling companions with a clear, radiant ping through the night air. Market chatter threads the story through the trade lanes that carry loyalty and luster alike. On a sun-warmed morning I wandered past stalls and wagons until Saddlebag Exchange caught my eye, a place where worn maps and bright coins mingle with lore. The torch rested on a display rail, its brass tag catching the light as if to whisper a bargain. The clerk offered it at roughly 2 silver and 60 copper, a fair price for a piece steeped in road-worn myth and practical flame. Eyes flicked between the price and the glow it held, and for a moment the market itself felt like a caravan of stories, moving as one toward the next fire. And so, it sits in the night-warmth of a traveler’s grip, ready to light the path ahead and to keep a little embers of bravery alive, one careful burn at a time.