Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Agony

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Agony fits neatly in the palm, a small beacon that seems to pulse with a heartbeat of its own. The shaft is pale and softly textured, the grain running like narrow rivers through oiled timber that has seen years of careful handling. The wood itself feels almost velvet to the touch, warmed by the kiss of many fires, with a ring of coppery ferrule that ages to a dull brass, catching light in a way that makes the whole thing look more ceremonial than utilitarian. The head is a compact brazier, wrapped in a whisper-thin layer of resin that glints like a wet beetle’s shell when you tilt it toward a lantern. A wick sits at the center, stubborn and patient, and when you strike a spark, the flame licks to life with a soft, almost ceremonial hiss. Inscribed along the length are sigils that twist and settle into a serpentine script, each glyph a memory of a rite performed under long, patient watch. The glow from the flame is not harsh; it’s a warm amber that seems to soften the air around it, as if the torch itself is coaxing ghosts of old vows to breathe anew. Loreful whispers cling to its surface, telling of a lineage of clerics who walked a borderland between healing and sacrifice. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Torch of Agony is said to channel the sorrow of the faithful, turning it into a disciplined flame that purifies but never scorches indiscriminately. In stories handed down by candle-makers and oath-keepers, the torch carried a creed: to illuminate truth, even when truth burns. In the field, its glow becomes a point of reference for the wary—an anchor that guides a marching line through shadowed corridors, through ruined sanctuaries where the air tastes faintly of iron and old blood. The agony it carries isn’t primarily a weapon, but a discipline—an energy drawn from shared suffering that lends resolve to those who fight alongside it. In practical terms, the torch functions as a luminary with a ritual sting. When waved across a room, it can ignite hidden sigils and brazier-pedestals that guardians of the ruin rely on to seal or unseal pathways. It dampens the creeping fear in a group, invigorating allies with a quiet warmth that steadies nerves in tight skirmishes. Its flame, when focused, seems to coax the ground into revealing scripture-carved hints or rune-etched doors that would otherwise refuse to answer. Even without dramatic spellwork, the torch carries a calming aura—an invitation to move with caution and purpose, to preserve momentum without reckless bravado. It’s the sort of token a caravan would carry into a contested ruin, a shared promise that the mission’s weight will be borne together. Market chatter around such a relic can be as intricate as the flame’s own dance. On a busy morning at the Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a trusted dealer weigh the torch against coins, wax-sealed letters, and a small vial of lantern oil. The price is never merely arithmetic; it is a story traded between hands—the cleric who valued the torch for its peace, the scavenger who needed it for a dangerous corridor, the craftsman who knew its wood spoke to the heart of a long tradition. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Torch of Agony remains not just a tool, but a companion—an ember that binds a moment of peril to a memory of purpose, and a reminder that in the right hands, light can carry more than heat; it can carry a vow.