Rampager's Soft Wood Torch of Earth

Rampager's Soft Wood Torch of Earth rested in my hand, its pale, honeyed wood smooth as a well-worn compass handle, the flame winking through a brass cage etched with delicate earth sigils. The shaft bore a subtle grain that seemed to shift with the light, like roots stirring beneath a forest floor, and the handle was wrapped in a cord of tanned leather that offered a sure grip even when the air grew damp. The torch bore a name that felt as old as stone, stamped along the upper ring in a script that looked as if it had grown there, as if someone had carved it into the tree’s memory rather than the wood. Its glow was not the bright orange of market torches; it shimmered with a warm amber-green that reminded me of moss in a quiet glade, the kind of light that didn’t jolt the eye but steadied it for what came next. There’s lore tucked into that soft wood, too, a story of Rampagers who once threaded their way through quaking hills and timbered caverns in search of safe routes and hidden veins. They carried torches such as this one to speak to the earth itself, to coax it into revealing what lay beneath—veins of ore, fissures in stone, veins of mineral dust that could be coaxed into visibility by the right spark and the right patience. The Earth sigils on the cage aren’t merely decoration; they’re a reminder that light here is a treaty with the ground, a promise to tread softly and listen as much as they illuminate. When I lit it, the glow gathered at the edges of the room like a quiet tide, and I felt a certain kinship with those old scouts, as if their footsteps had echoed in the space between the flame and the rock. In practice, the Rampager’s Soft Wood Torch of Earth isn’t just for atmosphere. It steadies a camp in the night and guides the way through fumy caverns where smells of damp stone and mineral dust cling to the air. Its light makes soft traces of mineral dust visible on a chalky wall, and the way it catches on weathered carvings can turn a routine cave map into a living page—the kind that whispers where a concealed path might wind, or where a safer line of ascent might lie. Explorers use it to light allies and to ward off darkness that would swallow a fragile camp or a precarious ledge. In skirmishes and exploration alike, such a torch becomes a partner, a signal flare that ties together plan and stamina. Pricing, of course, is a living thing, moving with demand and memory. I found the torch at a quiet stall near the harbor, but its true market was a longer conversation. At Saddlebag Exchange, someone whispered the going price, and the numbers shifted with the tide of buyers and dreamers in the bazaar. I traded for it with a small stash of ore samples and a weathered map that hinted at a long-forgotten vein. By dusk, the torch was more than an object of light; it had become part of the road I walked, a thread that tethered the earth to the path ahead, a reminder that even in the bustle of trade, stories—and rocks—still have a way of speaking to those who listen.