Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom rests on the altar of a quiet shrine, its pale wood smoothed to the color of dried bone and carved with patient, leaflike patterns that trace along the shaft. The handle fits the grip of a steady hand, worn by years of duty, while the head is wrapped in a thin brass collar that catches the light like a small sun. A glass reservoir sits at the heart of the torch, filled with a pale-green venom that glows faintly when the wick is lit, casting a sickly emerald sheen that seems to breathe and tremble in its own quiet heartbeat. The wick itself is a bundle of charred fibers, kept taut by a seam of resin, so the flame rises with a careful, almost ceremonial patience. It feels almost alive in the hand: not a mere tool, but a relic pressed from the hands of healers who walked through damp halls and swamp-wung ruins, a conduit between mercy and the more dangerous arts they kept in balance. Lore clings to it as surely as its scent of resin and ash. These torches were once passed from cleric to scout to field healer, not to wreathe battle but to ward the edge of fear itself—to illuminate the corridors where venom slept in silken sacs and glistening fangs, and to remind the bearer that light can be a shield as potent as any blade. The venom within, kept in check by ritual, is said to lend the flame a tempered, almost calculating glow, a reminder that mercy can be precise and that a flame can be both sign and warning. In the right hands, the torch becomes a storytelling companion: a beacon that reveals faded sigils on mossy walls, a spark that coaxes rare fungi into their glow, a companion to those who traverse ruins where poison and prayer share the same air. In practical terms, the Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Venom is more than a lantern. It is a reliable light source in damp tunnels and moonless coves, its glow slicing through fog and poison-saturated air with a steady ease that common torches envy. Adventurers carry it as much for the stories it prompts as for the steady flame; it can reveal hidden paths etched into stone by long-dead hands, and it serves to keep night-beasts at bay with its unsettling green light, a reminder of the presence of venom and the vigilance that wards it off. Its scent, its glow, and its weight in the grip of a careful bearer all work together to turn a simple walk into a deliberate march through history—one flame at a time. Markets whisper of its rarity and the care required to keep the venom contained, trading hands with the same slow reverence you’d expect from a relic. I watched the torch pass from stall to stall in the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders tested memory as much as metal. Prices drift with the tide of demand and the potency of the venom’s reputation, sometimes mere silver for a modest piece, other times a small treasure of gold for a rarer specimen whose glow holds more stories than most caskets. It’s the kind of item that invites you to walk a line—between healing and hazard, between history and street corner whimsy—and to remember that even a flame’s warmth can be a careful balance of mercy and power.