Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Smoldering

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Smoldering rests in my palm, the wood pale and honeyed, grain winding like a sleeping ember beneath a satin-lacquer sheen. The shaft feels almost alive to the touch, as if the tree itself remembers the prayers whispered over its sap. A narrow ring of brass clasps the midsection, catching light with a quiet, patient gleam, while a tiny glass cap crowns the head—not a flame but a living ember that glows with an inner breath. The glow shifts from warm amber to a cool, almost jade tint as you tilt the torch, and the texture under your fingers is impossibly smooth, save for the faint striations where the artisan’s blade coaxed the grain into a deliberate, ceremonial pattern. If you listen closely, you can hear a soft, sighing hiss—the sound of resin meeting air—like a small campfire that has learned to speak. Lore clings to its curved form as surely as the resin scent clings to the air in an old temple. It is said to have been carved by a cleric who walked through smoke and ash to a sanctuary’s founding, choosing soft wood for its ability to cradle warmth without flaring into wild flame. The smoldering ember within is thought to be the relic of a long-remembered oath: to illuminate truth in the darkest places, to keep vigil over the vulnerable, to ensure a path remains when night would swallow it whole. Inscribed along the length are faint, heat-worn runes, not letters so much as whispers of ember and wind, guiding the bearer toward measured breath and steady hand. The torch is more than tool and talisman; it is a memory pressed into wood and fire, a reminder that light can be gentle and enduring even when the world grows cold and uncertain. In the world’s dull roar of lanterns and forged steel, this torch earns its place not only on ceremonial altars but in the hands of scouts skirting cavern edges and healers guiding caravans through fogged canyons. Its glow is enough to reveal hidden sigils etched along temple walls, enough to coax a scared traveler forward when a bend in the road promises more questions than answers. It steadies a healer’s breath, the ember’s patience echoing in the cadence of prayer-backed chants, and it gives a practical edge to risk, because you can see where you are going when everything around you seems to remember only shadows. It is a companion in a larger story—the type of relic that turns a quiet night into a chance to witness something that matters. Prices drift around the well-trodden markets, and you’ll hear traders speak of it in hushed, reverent tones at Saddlebag Exchange, where stories travel fast as the dust off a well-polished shield. A broker might tell you the Torch’s value sits in careful balance between collector’s desire and practical utility, moving within a few gold depending on season and the whispers of temple favors. It’s not just currency; it’s a signal—of faith kept, of journeys taken, of the promise that even a small flame can guide the way.