The Berserker's Soft Wood Torch of Peril rests in the palm, its shaft carved from pale, honey-toned softwood that catches the lamplight with a stubborn warmth. The grain threads through it like a map of old campaigns, and the head is bound with a brushed iron ferrule etched with spirals and a jagged line that looks as if a storm brushed across the wood. A wick thick with resin sits in a copper catch, and when you strike it, the flame settles into a core of pale blue fire that gutters into a stubborn orange halo. The surface bears the telltale wear of many hands: smudges of oil from rope tangles, a nick here and there where it scraped against a rock on a hurried climb. The name is burned into the wood in a script that feels as old as the trees it was hewn from, a badge of lineage rather than mere decoration. In the heat of a roadside market, its glow seems to hum with memory—of scouts who walked night routes, of rain-slick paths that demanded calm and courage in equal measure. In the world that holds this torch, the item is more than a tool; it is a compact tale of risk and purpose. It shines brightest when you’re pressed between a cliff face and a ravine of jagged stone, turning darkness into a corridor of possibilities. Its Berserker’s prefix promises a blend: power tempered by precision, ferocity braided with discipline. When held in the right hand, the torch seems to answer a hunter’s instinct—its flame grows steadier as you press your advantage, and the runes along the shaft flare faintly whenever a hidden glyph or a dormant sigil stirs in the dark. In exploration, the Soft Wood Torch of Peril reveals clues the eye alone would miss: footsteps in ash, a doorway carved into rock that only appears when the light licks the wall just so. In combat, the glow becomes a signal to allies, a beacon that cuts through the melee clutter and lets a team converge with a shared rhythm. The lore of the torch threads through your journey as a narrative anchor. Berserker scouts once carried them into perilous passes, trusting flame and will to keep a group together when the night thickened and the path ahead narrowed to a crack in the rock. The name hints at danger—not reckless bravado, but a calculated gamble with fate: light up the moment you strike, and risk a flare that might draw eyes from waiting foes or lure a shadowed trap closer. I found it in a stall tucked along a well-worn caravan route, its sign swinging over a row of satchels and trinkets, the emblem of Saddlebag Exchange painted in chalk on a weathered board. The trader spoke of demand rising when ripened hunts bring caravans through the passes, and the price danced with the pulse of the road—fair for a tool that can turn a perilous corridor into a clear path. The day I bought it, the torch rested against my hip like a memory I hadn’t earned yet, and the road ahead lightened in answer to the flame I carried. It felt less a purchase than a pact—with the wood, with the stories, with the peril that makes every journey worth telling.