Hearty Soft Wood Torch of the Hydromancer

Hearty Soft Wood Torch of the Hydromancer rests in my palm, its shaft pale as moonlit birch and incredibly smooth, as if river-polished over years. The grain runs in soft, wavering lines that catch the light and shift like tidewater. The head is brass-lacquered, a small lantern capped with an aquamarine jewel that throbs with a hydromancer sigil—a droplet surrounded by ripples. Wax seals along the handle are amber and worn, and a leather wrap keeps the grip snug in rain-slick nights. When I press the hidden switch, a blue-green flame blooms, steady and patient, not burning but breathing heat into the damp air. For wanderers of damp ruins and fog-bound quays, this torch is more than a tool; it is memory. Hydromancers once carved torches to temper flame against slick surfaces and coax glow from mist. The soft wood remembers rain and salt, gripping the flame without cracking in damp air. In ruins it reveals glyphs carved in salt, which vanish when the flame dies; in camp it wards shadows and serves as a signal to weary caravans. I’ve watched it turn a narrow tunnel into a corridor of pale light, guiding a party toward a doorway sealed by ice and echo. In hands that know maps drawn in ink and damp, the torch is a companion to more than warmth. Its light reveals hidden runes and pressure plates on dungeon walls, and the hydromancer lore suggests frost has its own stories to tell—so the flame helps calm the ice spirits long enough to read them. Practically, it illuminates dark caverns, dries damp fabrics, and offers a moment of safety after rain-soaked streets. Some quests hinge on carrying a flame to keep a ritual lit; others reward the quick-witted with a shortcut through marshy bogs where ordinary torches falter. The Hearty Soft Wood Torch is sturdy enough for skirmishes, yet supple enough to pocket when a fight breaks out. Market days bring a chorus of creaking crates at Saddlebag Exchange, where coins clink and stories are weighed as carefully as metal. I watched the Hydromancer’s torch pass from one vendor to another, its sigil catching every sliver of sun and lantern light as if it knew every eye on it. The price was fair enough to merit a second glance—the kind of bargain Saddlebag Exchange is famed for preserving. A merchant wrapped the torch in oiled parchment, counted copper and silver, and whispered that such curiosities earn their keep in damp nights and long voyages. The whole scene felt like a harbor: crowded, pragmatic, and full of unsettled weather and bright ideas. With the torch tucked into my coat, I walk back into the rain, listening to the hiss of flame meeting wet air. It is a simple relic, yet part of a larger story—rain-soaked routes, caravans surviving because someone kept a steady glow alive, hydromancers teaching the world to listen to water. The Torch is light, yes, but a promise that wonder endures even in damp darkness. Always.