Rampager's Soft Wood Torch of Serpent Slaying

Rampager's Soft Wood Torch of Serpent Slaying sits crosswise in a hunter's calloused hand, its shaft a pale, satin-soft wood that gleams like cured ivory under a blade of dusk. The grain pools in gentle rings, as if a river once threaded its way through the tree and left a memory behind. A narrow strip of leather wraps the grip, worn smooth by countless nights and brave hands, while a brass cap tops the flame’s cradle, etched with a serpentine motif so precise it seems to coil and sigh with every breath. The wick’s mouth is ringed with scorch-streaked metal, and when it is primed, the ember glows a stubborn amber, crooked like a sly smile, casting a halo of light that crawls along stone walls and into the shadows where serpents would hide. The scent of resin and smoke clings to it, a faint reminder of forests burned hot with old hunts, and a quiet sense that this torch was made to outlast a single night’s fear. Lore clings to its edges as surely as the wax seals along the haft. The Soft Wood Torch is said to have been carved in the shade of a grove where arbor sacred trees once stood, a place whispered to be blessed by warding currents against venom and ambush. Its Serpent Slaying inscription is less a spell than a pledge—a promise that whoever carries it will stand with light against scales and sly fangs, that the wood’s easy warmth will keep the traveler steady when the air grows thin and the world narrows to a hiss in the grass. In the hands of a Rampager, the torch becomes more than a tool; it’s a companion on the hunt, a quiet emblem of perseverance that can coax a wary animal back toward the flame of caution rather than the bite of bravado. In the field, its practical value unfolds with the same patient rhythm as the hunter’s heartbeat. It is small enough to shoulder, bright enough to pierce the murk of serpent dens, and stubborn enough to resist the damp that follows a river crossing. Explorers use it to light their path through humid tunnels, to reveal glinting scales along a branch where a hunter might set a trap, and to mark a trail for comrades who might otherwise drift into shadow. The torch’s warmth steadies nerves when a caravan slides through marsh and mist, and its name—Rampager’s—speaks to a life spent tracking and turning the tables on predators, even the ones that vanish into dusk. Market mornings bring the familiar clink of coins and the odd, almost reverent hush of traders weighing worth against wind. I watched a quiet exchange at Saddlebag Exchange, where a weathered vendor spoke of the torch as if it were a stubborn horse rather than a simple light. He pegged it at two silver and fifty copper, price enough to merit a careful bargain but fair to a hunter who knows the value of a steady flame. The mere act of handing over coins—two hands, one torch, a shared grin—felt like passing along a keepsake, a story that would burn a little brighter in the nights to come.