Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Force

Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Force rests in my gloved palm, a slender cylinder of warm, honeyed wood that smooths under finger pads like a well-traveled staff. The shaft is soft wood, its grain tight and patient, whispering when you run your thumb along its length. A brass collar locks against a glass lantern head, inside which a pale crescent wick sits above a coiled ember-core that glows with an uncertain blue, as if wind itself had warmed the flame. The torch’s head is carved into the likeness of a snarling jaw, teeth notched from battles, and the runes along the neck glow faintly when the Force hums through it. The whole thing carries the scent of pine sap and campfires, a fragrance that speaks of frost-bitten dawns and reckless, fearless nights. When you light it, the flame leans toward the bearer, almost listening for a whispered command. In daylight it looks ceremonial, a relic of a faction that believed darkness could be coaxed into obedience. In the field, however, its usefulness is plain: a torch that burns with a steady, almost clinical intensity, drying damp walls, painting the tunnel walls with a pale blue map that only the keen-eyed can read. The Force inscription hums with a quiet momentum, steadier breath and steadier hands. It becomes a companion, the kind of object that makes you feel someone else walked the path before you and left a signpost in the dust. Travelers tell stories of Berserker torches like old hunters tell legends of catches. Its value isn’t merely lamp-light but vow and provenance: you carry force into the dark, and the torch carries you back. In the wild, it is a signal to allies and a warning to foes; in a camp you become the center of a circle where plans, songs, and strategies mingle with the warmth of the flame. When I first drew it from a saddlebag and felt the weight of the wood, I imagined a caravan threading a snow-swept pass, the air crackling with talk of routes and rescues. The bead on the cap, the etched motif of a storm-black berserker, and the soft sheen of the wood tell me this is not a disposable tool but a cipher—an object that marks a moment of courage in a long journey. At Saddlebag Exchange, merchants set its price with practiced glances—not merely gold and silver but trust. A fair listing hovers in the mid-range of a traveler’s purse: a few silver, perhaps a copper-laden belt, sometimes a trade’s worth of herbs or rations as the market ebbs and flows. The torch’s worth shifts with stories told and routes charted; its value is as much cultural as monetary, a token of shared hazard and shared help. In the end, the Berserker’s Soft Wood Torch of Force is more than a tool. It is a memory made tangible, a flame that binds the night to the march ahead, glimmering with the resolve of berserkers who refused to let darkness decide.