Strong Torch

Strong Torch sits in my palm like a small but stubborn sun. Its body is a stout piece of ash wood, the grain darkened by rain and soot, bound at the grip with brass rings that catch the light and return the warmth to my hand. The head is wrapped in a strip of oil-soaked wool, the ragged edge stiff with resin, and the flame flickers with a tempered orange glow, a blue core glimmering at its center, stubborn against damp air. The texture alternates between slick wax on the lacquered handle and the rough grain of wood that bites your fingers when you grip it too hard. If you press your thumb near the knot, you can feel the tool's history—some char, some burn, and a subtle varnish that smells of pine and fire. Locally, the strong torch is said to be a favorite among caravan guards who paced the wind-whipped trail between outposts long after nightfall. Rumor holds that its oil was mixed with resin harvested from the hills, a dwarven trick to keep a flame steady where dampness gnaws at the edges of every wick. The flame's stubbornness lends it more than warmth; it is a beacon that carves a line through shadow, turning a narrow pass into a corridor of possibility. In the deepest ruins, it is the difference between finding a hidden lever and mistaking a loose stone for a trap. From a gameplay perspective, this is more than a simple tool. The Strong Torch brightens the world, enlarging your visibility and revealing glimmering sigils etched into stone. It buys you time in ambushes, the fearsome glare of the flame distracting skittering foes long enough to slip past or strike with a clear front. It can light braziers that block doors and trigger puzzles, and its heat warms not just the fingers but the heart of a party marching through damp caverns or storm-slicked streets. When you hold it, you feel the weight of all the little choices—which corridor to press, which shadow to trust, which path will not collapse beneath your boots. On a late afternoon market stroll, I let the Strong Torch rest in its sheath as I consulted the day’s ledger. Saddlebag Exchange had a scatter of torches stacked on a ragged shelf, the price marked in careful scrawl: a handful of copper for common torches, a few silver for the stronger ones, with the Strong Torch trending toward the lower end if the wick is fresh and the wood dry. A trader grinned, spoke of a shipment that had crossed the ocean-spray last week, and I traded a belt pouch full of coins for a keeper who could outlast the night. It felt like more than a purchase; it felt like a promise—the torch would light our way beyond the next ruined gate, and perhaps, if the story endures, it would be handed to someone else with a similar hunger for dawn. Back on the road, I lift the torch again, and the city yawns awake before us.