Honed Soft Wood Torch of Agony

Honed Soft Wood Torch of Agony rests in the palm of a weathered traveler, its head a slender cone of pale, honeyed wood burnished by countless hands. The grain runs like a map of distant forests, each ring a memory of rain and sun; the surface is smooth enough to slip between fingers yet warm as a living ember. A brass collar encircles the base, etched with sigils that catch the flame and glow a slight, patient gold when the wick catches, as if the wood itself breathes in the light. The wick is a braid of linen, rubbed with resin, and when you strike it, the flame comes alive with a soft, almost deliberate burn, not a wild leap but a measured promise. There’s a scent to it, too—a resinous sweetness that knots with a hint of smoke and something ancient, as if the torch carries a whisper of old sacrifices and quieter cautions kept by torchbearers who walked ahead into narrow tunnels and deeper ruins. Lore threads through its appearance as naturally as the grain threads through the wood. Locals tell of a monastery long swallowed by time, where monks coaxed light from the strangest places and taught their wards to listen to fire as a pupil, not a master. The Honed Soft Wood Torch of Agony, they say, was pressed into service when the night demanded a friendlier flame yet a blade’s resolve—an incendiary tool that could reveal guarded thresholds and burn away what would keep a heart from its path. The name itself feels like a mouthful of heat and memory: agony tempered, not appeased, contained within a torch that burns with a patient, almost merciful burn. In the right hands, it becomes more than a flame; it is a key and a shield. In the world this torch belongs to, light is a language. You carry it to reveal sigils etched on stone, to burn away creeping vines that suffocate old doorways, or to coax a stubborn mechanism into waking with a sigh of smoke and a spark. Its glow is steady enough to guide a wanderer through damp caverns, yet bright enough to draw attention from wary neighbors—the kind of light that tells you not only where you are, but what you must do next. The torch’s agony is not raw heat but a compressed history of battles fought in dark places: the way a flame can push back when the echo of a scream travels farther than a shadow, how it can turn a reluctant ally into a beacon, how people doubt its power until a corridor finally gives way. The market knows this tale, too. I found one at Saddlebag Exchange, a vendor’s stall that smells of wax and rain, priced with the grace of a well-worn weapon: copper coins behind a small bundle of dried resin—nothing flashy, just enough to tell a story of trade and trust. The keeper spoke softly of its value to those who walk perilous routes, where every spark matters, and where a single, honest flame might mean the difference between a safe exit and a longer night. I bought it not as a trophy but as a companion—something that would have a place beside my map and my memories, waiting for the moment when the world’s shadows require a patient light to show the way forward.