Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Corruption

Cleric's Soft Wood Torch of Corruption rests in my palm, a pale shaft of wood so smooth it feels almost velvet under the fingers, as if the river’s own polish had found its way into the grain. The body is slender but stubbornly solid, with a grain that curves like a quiet current and warms to your heartbeat when you grip it. A brass collar clamps the head, etched with delicate sigils that seem to shimmer when the lilac flame within stirs. The flame looks hungry and fragile at once, a pale violet glow that refuses to be a mere glow—more like a small, controlled storm that travels along the wick, which is wrapped in a charcoal-black string of cotton. The whole thing exudes a resinous scent—pine, rain, and something that hints at secrets kept in the dark—as if the wood itself carries a memory of rain-soaked forests where corruption first learned to grow. Lore says this torch was carved by a clerical faction that danced on the edge of light and shadow, a sect that believed corruption could be faced and tempered, not banished outright. They gathered the soft wood from trees that thrived on mist and ruin, carved runes into the grain, and bound the whole thing with metal that would never quite endure the same way again. When lit, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Torch of Corruption does more than illuminate; it sighs with the world’s hidden histories, pulling aside threads of darkness so that a seasoned eye might read the handwriting of a corrupted shrine or a once-forgotten sigil hidden in a wall of roots. It feels intimate, almost autobiographical—a tool that remembers the hands that laid it down and the hands that picked it back up. In the field, it shifts from a comforting beacon to a crucial instrument in a larger drama. Walking through a ruined temple at dusk, I’ve watched the lilac flame cast pale halos on cracked mosaics, reveal rusting traps, and coax half-seen glyphs into legible relief. When swung in a ritual circle, the torch seems to temper the air, coaxing healers to hear a whispered cadence in their prayers and granting their prayers a sharper edge against creeping corruption. Yet there’s a tension to it: the same corruption that glints in the walls can press back when the flame draws near, as if the torch is answering an old vow to keep the world honest even when honesty hurts. Its practical uses are many—lighting, guidance, and warding—but the true story it tells is of a world that bends toward dark cures and brighter questions. The market, of course, does not forget such a piece. In the markets along the pier, a steady buzz circulates about its value, a rumor that the Saddlebag Exchange handles lore-laden curiosities with a careful, almost reverent, negotiation pace. The price threads between cautious bargaining and feverish perusal, a few gold coins skittering across wooden tables as traders trade tales as much as tangible value. A veteran merchant will murmur that, depending on the week’s tides and the buyer’s intent, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Torch of Corruption can fetch more or less, but always with a story to tell, a story that lingers in the smoke and lilac glow whenever the buyer lifts it again. So it sits, a relic and a tool, a conduit for memory and future action. In a world where light battles darkness with every breath, this torch does more than shed light—it invites you to listen to what the darkness has to teach and to decide, with quiet courage, what to illuminate next.