Cleric's Soft Wood Staff

Cleric's Soft Wood Staff sits on a sun-warmed market stall, a slender cylinder of pale wood that glows with a quiet, almost-polished honesty. The surface is smooth enough to vanish under a fingertip, yet bears the faintest whorl of grain that looks like a map of old prayers, spiraling toward a knot where the staff’s heart would be. At the top, a rounded knob is wrapped in a linen wrap the color of dried grasses, etched with delicate sigils that catch the light and scatter it in tiny, hopeful sparks. The texture is cool and living, a whisper of resin where the carved runes meet the air, and if you rub your thumb along the crest, you can feel the wood’s age—the years of service, the countless hands that have guided it, the quiet patience of a tool that has learned to listen. Lore says this is no mere stick but a conduit. In temple halls and along caravan trails, artisans carved the soft wood from sacred groves tended by healers who spoke little and listened a lot. The staff absorbed breath, scent, and faith, then released it with a gentleness that felt almost ceremonial. People tell stories of clerics who could calm a fever’s feverish pulse with a touch, who could call a pale light to mend a splintered bone or hush the chatter of a battlefield with a patient, measured breath. In those stories the Soft Wood is a partner as much as a weapon, a quiet advocate for mercy rather than conquest. In the game’s world, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Staff is less a weapon than a steady invitation—an instrument that makes healing and protection feel like a shared act, not a solo bravado. When a character raises it, pale runes flare to life and a gentle aura rolls outward, easing wounds, cleansing afflictions, and heightening focus for those who stand close. Its power is not in dramatic explosions but in sustained, attentive care: a conduit for healing power that lingers, a beacon that guides allies back from the edge of exhaustion, a shield formed from light and will. Practitioners of the staff learn to synchronize their breath with its hum, weaving support into the fabric of the fight until enemies drift past like storm clouds that never quite break. Prices drift in the markets like a measured prayer. In the dusty glow of Saddlebag Exchange, pristine Cleric's Soft Wood Staffs command a durable value—roughly a gold or two when the sigils glow clearly and the wood’s whisper is brightest. Worn or scorched versions, bearing the marks of long campaigns, trade hands for a fraction of that, but even then the staff carries a story worth a dozen hurried purchases. Traders speak in hushed tones about the balance of price and history, about how a well-used staff carries the memories of its healers and the promise of its future owners. A buyer sees not just wood and carved ink, but a rumor of mercy, a chance to pace a moment of care in the middle of a hard road—and perhaps to write the next chapter of its lore with every gentle hand it chooses to guide.