Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Earth

The Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Earth rests in my palm, its grain curling like amber rivers under a thin veil of resin. The shaft is slender but stout, shaved from a soft wood that gives with a satisfying give when you press your thumb along its length. Carved sigils thread along the spine—earth, bear, and hammer—each one worn smooth by weather and hands that once held it in desperate night marches. The flame itself flickers with a stubborn, almost patient glow, as if the torch is listening rather than burning, and the light carries a warm ochre that never quite warms your skin, only your sense of the ground beneath you. A loop of tanned leather encircles the base, both grip and guide, while a faint scent of resin clings to the air, reminding you that wood, sap, and stone have stories to tell. In the dusk, the torch feels like a living thing, a loyal companion carved by someone who trusted the land not to forget them. Lore connections: the Berserker whose name the town still breathes whispered to the torch, and in their rampage they promised to leave no tunnel unlit, no crevice unexamined, no trap unprepared. Tales insist the earth answered back, cracking with distant thunder when the weapon lucidly blazed in fury, and the torch absorbed that quiet tremor, turning it into a steadfast shine the bearer could rely on through long, treacherous corridors. Its uses in the world are as practical as they are poetic. A light to scout cavern shelves, to coax hidden runes into view, to set a safe ring around a campfire where negotiations happen under stars. For explorers, its earth-touched glow often marks sanctuaries of old caravans and the faint outline of a map pin, a breadcrumb trail left by hands long past. And yet the torch is most human in price and trade, a reminder that light costs something when you travel with it. Last week, I watched a vendor at Saddlebag Exchange weigh a bulb of amber against the promise of shared stories, nodding as the silver settled and the torch changed hands. Prices wandered around a modest range—enough to frighten off the careless, but generous enough to reward careful bargaining. One trader whispered that the earth itself liked a bargain, that the percussive history of the woods could soften an old debt in any season, and I left with a smile and a softly glowing token. On the trail back to camp, the torch circled in my apprentice's hands, teaching him how quiet courage can carry more light than a louder boast. So it remains, a small talisman for the road, proof that attention to a single flame can steer a larger journey. In the markets and in the mines, the Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Earth continues to glow between hands that crave direction and stories that demand memory, a steady beacon when the ground itself seems to tremble beneath the bootprints of the living. Prices wandered around a modest range—enough to frighten off the careless, but generous enough to reward careful bargaining. Always.