Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force

Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force rests propped against a sun-warmed stall, its pale shaft smooth as a well-kept arm, the grain curling like a whispered prayer under a thin gloss of beeswax. The body is slender but solid, carved with delicate sigils that catch the light and ripple as you turn it, each rune a memory pressed into the wood. Its grip is wrapped in faded leather, soft from years of careful handling, and the head—where the wood widens slightly—cradles a careful, almost patient orb of glass that hums with a quiet, contained energy. The surface is warm to the touch, as if the wood remembers every hand that ever cradled it, and the central core glows with a pale, almost patient blue that never seems to burn too bright, never to blind. It feels alive in the palm, a thing made for listening as much as for speaking. Lore would say the staff came from a small grove on the edge of a ruined shrine, where clerics once tended wards as vigilantly as they tended the living. Carved by smiths who learned to hear stone sighs, the Soft Wood Staff of Force was designed to channel protective touch and resonant energy without overbearing the holder's will. The soft wood, despite its name, carries a stubborn strength; the sigils are not merely decoration but a ledger of hopes—wardings against storm, against fear, against despair. The lore whispers that in the old days a healer-warden who walked between crumbling arches learned to coax a storm into a calm breath, letting the Force become a steady chorus rather than a single sharp note. It is the kind of tale that makes a buyer lean in and listen, spine straight, as if the staff itself might tell a story if you listen long enough. In practice, the staff feels like a companion in a crowded world. It arcs through space with a patient, deliberate swing, calling forth a shield of light that blooms against the dark and seals the heart from tremor. It channels not just healing energy but a certain righteous momentum—an aurasphere that grows stronger as you steady your stance, allowing allies to press forward with greater resolve. Its Force is not merely brute power; it is steadiness, a gentle push that keeps a line intact when the battlefield threatens to collapse into chaos. People who carry it speak of quiet confidence—the assurance that the next blow can be redirected, the next ally brightened, the next door opened by the soft, unyielding force of purpose. Market days bring their own hum to the conversation, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where the old stories and newer bargains mingle like spices. There, a trader’s fingers sometimes trace the runes and murmur of its history, appraising its weight in memory as much as metal. The price, settled over cups of smoky tea and the soft clink of coins, tends to hover around a respectful sum, but it is never merely about currency; it is about trust—the belief that this staff will carry a healer through both quiet moments and sudden storms. I walked away with a pouch of silver and a story in my pocket, the staff resting against my spine, warm and steadfast, a reminder that to wield it is to become part of a longer, slower ritual. So the Cleric's Soft Wood Staff of Force remains not just an instrument, but a rumor made tangible—a thing you can hold, listen to, and let guide you toward a steadier, kinder world.