Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Fire

Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Fire rests in the palm, its grain breathing a warm, cinnamon glow through a lacquered veneer that catches the light like a ember-dusted shell. The shaft feels velvety to the touch—soft wood worked down to a satin that invites a cautious rub with a thumb—and the surface is etched with a river of runes, each line scored deep enough to catch a spark. A small brass collar crowns the head, where a glass capsule houses the flame, protected by a delicate bronze hood that sways when the holder shifts their grip. The color shifts with the flame—bronze-amber when idle, a fierce copper when the wick breathes—as if the wood itself breathes in time with a warrior’s heartbeat. Lore has it that the torch was carved by forest-carvers who once walked with berserkers in the cold hours before dawn, the soft wood chosen for its quiet resilience and its ability to carry a flame without cracking under pressure. They say the flame remembers the only true fire these woods ever knew: the ferocity of a battle’s end softened into a candle in the night. In the world I found it, the torch didn’t merely illuminate a path; it braided itself into the night’s story. When you lift it, the glow casts a warm halo that turns stone walls into storytellers, revealing faint scorch marks and glyphs long hidden from unlit eyes. It isn’t a weapon, and yet its brightness disrupts shadows with a ritual flourish—while you walk, the torch seems to lean closer, as if eager to share a whispered map of what lies ahead. The flesh of the hand that holds it radiates a calm heat, enough to steady nerves after a skirmish or to steady the nerves of a camp where watchful silence hangs like a rain-stung veil. Players cultivate its use the way a vignette in a legend grows: a beacon to guide a wary party through a tunnel, a signal flare offered to allies at the edge of a cliff, a storyteller’s prop in a midnight rest stop where laughter rises and the world feels a shade kinder for a few bright minutes. The market’s breath is a crucial thread in its tale. I first heard of its value in the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay out wares with the careful cadence of practiced salesmanship. The sign outside a sun-warmed stall bore a price tag in silver coins, and the clerk—eyes bright with a ranger’s caution—spoke of a fair, negotiable sum: a little over two silver and a handful of copper, negotiable depending on the day and the haggard stories you traded along with it. The exchange, with its steady clink of coin and the soft rasp of leather, makes such relics feel earned, not merely bought. I walked away with the torch tucked under my arm, the leather strap warming against the wood as if the world itself approves the purchase, as if the flame in the capsule has already started to light a larger narrative: that even a simple torch can become a companion, a witness, and a small, stubborn source of courage when the night grows long and the road ahead remains uncertain.