Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom rests in my gloved palm, a slender beacon carved from pale, forgiving softwood that feels almost warm to the touch, as if it remembers every hand that held it before mine. The grain spirals like a slow river under satin lacquer, and a thin brass ferrule locks a braided wick in place, the fibers darkened with repeated prayers and weather. Along the shaft run sigils—fern spirals, fang marks, and a delicate line of script that glows faint emerald when the flame is lit—as if the torch carries a private jotted map of trust and danger. A tiny glass bead, filled with a pinch of venomous resin, is set near the base; tilt the torch and the bead catches the light, releasing a pinprick of that greenish venom into the air for a momentary shimmer that promises protection or peril, depending on who watches it. The scent is oddly comforting—honeyed wood, resin, a whisper of coppery tang—that makes even the most tense hunter pause, if only to listen to the flame. There, in the calm of a ruined shrine or a lantern-lit caravan nook, the torch feels less like a tool and more like a companion woven into the order it once served. lore has it that clerics who walked among venomous routes learned to temper their fear with the glow of this very torch, coaxing serpents and shadowed spirits to part for a safer path. The venom element is not merely for show; it has a ritual purpose, a patience that agrees with the slow breathing of a ruined temple. When pressed into service, the flame steadies and the air thickens with a green hush, as if the torch were spilling a vow onto the air: ward this way, harm cannot pass, or at least not without consequence. In practical terms, it is a beacon in darkness and a whisper of danger to any ambush. In the right hands, it becomes a narrative thread—lighting the way through thorned corridors, guiding a party through cloisters where venom traps have learned to wait, and turning a seemingly ordinary exit into a remembered hinge of fate. In the field it is a versatile ally. The glow reveals hidden glyphs carved into walls, prints of old serpents that point toward caches of powder, or the glint of a dormant mechanism waiting to spring. Its venom-infused aura can stagger a foe with a targeted strike, softening the ground for a coordinated push by melee allies, while the flame itself keeps creeping gnats and pestilent spirits at bay with a steady, soothing burn. It is not simply a torch but a conductor of stories—the sort that travelers swap in back-alley markets and over campfires, where the price of such a relic feels less like coin and more like a promise of safe passage. Speaking of price, I heard a trader mention Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling hub where scavengers and scholars barter in whispers as much as in silver; a Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom can drift between 12 and 18 silver, depending on how fresh the venom is and how many sigils have been polished to a gleam. It’s a balance between memory and utility, between risk and comfort, and the torch carries both in equal measure, inviting the next reader into its ribbed, glowing story.