Honed Soft Wood Torch of Ogre Slaying

Honed Soft Wood Torch of Ogre Slaying rests in the curve of my gloved hand, its stock a pale, satin-polished piece of softwood that fits perfectly in a palm full of wind and grit. The grain runs like a quiet river, light catching on every swell and dip as if the wood remembers every footstep of the journeys it has witnessed. A slender brass ferrule crowns the top, catching the glow of the flame and throwing back a ring of gold when the torch is tilted toward a dark tunnel. A worn strip of leather wraps the handle, knotted at the end, and a small iron ring anchors the wick’s snuffer cap. Along the shaft run delicate sigils—thin runes and a crowned peak—etchings that feel almost warm to the touch, as if the wood itself remembers the vow it bears: to light the way and to keep the night at bay. Lore whispers that this torch was not simply carved, but earned. A village woodwright, small of stature but large of legend, hammered and honed these torches after a raid by ogres that had crept down from granite ridges to snatch cattle and sleep in the ash-gray dusk of the market square. They say the runes were pressed into the wood not as decoration but as a pact—light to deter giant feet, heat to scatter thorn-backed fear, a spark carried through the valley to guide a caravan and its fragile cargo. When lit, the torch does not merely illuminate; it hums with memory, a shared pulse between wood and flame that makes even seasoned rangers pause as if the night itself were listening. In the world the torch inhabits, its uses extend beyond simple illumination. It is a companion in treacherous caves where gnawing darkness clings to stone, a tool for igniting resinous traps, and a ward of intimidation against ogre patrols—firelight that crawls along walls, painting shadow-sculptures of danger and possibility. It offers a practical, tactile reminder that courage can be fashioned from ordinary things: a carved stick, a wick, a breath of heat. Adventurers flare it to reveal ambushes, to coax hidden sigils from damp stone, to mark a crossing where footprints vanish into slurry and fear. The Honed Soft Wood Torch speaks softly of readiness, of wandering with a purpose, of turning a mere tool into a beacon on the long road. The market’s murmur finally led me to Saddlebag Exchange, where a sturdy trader weighed the heft of the torch against coins and stories. The price sits, not as a boast, but as a shared understanding: a couple of silver, perhaps a few copper more if the vendor’s hands remember recent skirmishes with ogre scouts. I listened to the coins clink and the leather creak as he spoke of demand—torches devoted to those who walk the razor edge between daylight and darkness, between rumor and road-trip certainty. He wrapped the torch in oiled parchment, slid it into my bag, and for a moment the street’s noise settled into a single, patient flame. So it rests now, not merely a tool but a thread in a wider tapestry of journeys. The Honed Soft Wood Torch of Ogre Slaying continues to glow, a small beacon that binds memory to action, light to path, and the quiet promise that even in a world of peril, a well-made flame can guide you home.