Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force

Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force gleams with a pale, honeyed grain, the wood so smooth it seems to hum beneath the fingertips. The shaft is slender and perfectly balanced, a reed tempered by years of prayer, with faint ridges where decades of handling have worn it slick. The head bears a simple crown of brushed brass, etched runes that catch light and flicker when the wielder draws power into the space around them. A strip of faded linen coils around the grip, soft to the touch, frayed at the ends where careworn hands have bound it tighter over the years. The color shifts with the angle of the sun, from ivory to a pale champagne glow, and when the head is pressed there is a faint resonance, a quiet pulse that speaks of a heartiness older than the oldest stone in the temple walls. Lore says it was carved from a branch in a consecrated grove, touched by moonlit healing energies, and passed down through clerics who tended the wounded with patient hands and whispered prayers—a relic that remembers the first dawn of aid. In the field, the staff is less a weapon than a conduit. Those who carry it learn to read the windings of force as if they were old storyteller’s threads, weaving healing fields that bloom in mist and shade, shielding allies with a calm, outward pressure. Its power lends itself to quiet, disciplined use: a gentle pulse that steadies a rallying line, a warding aura that stances the group against brash incursions, and a measured displacement when the skirmish grows too wild for raw courage alone. The Soft Wood feels alive in the grip—light enough to maneuver with, sturdy enough to anchor a chain of restorative spells, and warm as a duty fulfilled. It asks for restraint and slowness, rewarding patience with steadier hands and clearer intention, turning otherwise brittle moments into chances for mercy. The staff’s significance widens beyond the immediate clash of blades and spells. It is a companion on the road, a talisman for caravans that ferry refugees or keeps a town’s heartbeat steady through long nights. Those who wield it become part of a larger, evolving story: a healer traveling with a relay of messengers, a quiet advocate between quarrels, a voice that says healing is not a luxury but a basic form of courage. The wood’s soft glow seems to say that power, when tempered with care, can bend fear toward hope. Market talk adds another layer to its tale. During a stop in a sun-warmed bazaar, I found the Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force mentioned on a dusty shelf and in a passing chat on Saddlebag Exchange. The listing suggested a price in the realm of a few gold coins, negotiable depending on the buyer’s patience and the seller’s memory of its history. The exchange’s pulse bobbed with new bids and old stories—people trading for relics as much as for power, attaching their own journeys to the items they acquire. In that moment, the staff no longer stood alone; it carried the weight of every hand that had ever pressed its grip, and every story that awaited its next, patient bearer.