Strong Torch

Strong Torch, a thick, ash-stained cylinder wrapped in weathered leather, glows with a stubborn amber flame. The wick sits in a ring of bronze that has seen more repairs than a veteran courier, and its oil-soaked core hums with a quiet, stubborn heat. The surface is pocked by sparks and soot, the grain of the wood worn smooth by years in belt pouches and misty marches through the Shiverpeaks. Its engraving—three intertwining sigils for endurance, mercy, and flame—speaks of a maker who believed light could outlast fear, and the lore whisper tells of caravans that carried these torches across unsettled routes, keeping watch from dusk until the first morning bell. It is not just a tool; it's a partner in the long road. In the field, the Strong Torch outlasts cheap imitates, resisting the wind, the rain, the grip of your clenched teeth. You strike it once and the flame stubbornly returns after a puff of smoke, as if it remembers every night it has lit a sheltering circle around a pan of stew or a map of treacherous cliffs. In exploration, you use it to carve a path through cavern gloom, to draw a circle of light for your companions, or to signal a rider who has ventured too far ahead. Its heat is enough to warm your gloves, enough to dry a damp cloak, enough to remind you that light is not a luxury but a suit of armor against the dark. On the market, I watch the Strong Torch traded with a quiet respect. The leather straps cling to its body like an old friend, and the copper ferrule catches the sun and throws it back in a microburst of glow. A roving trader cluster haggles with a price tag that clicks against coins; Saddlebag Exchange has it listed in a neat bundle with three other essential light sources, a quiet reminder that in the caravan lanes, every glow matters. The price isn’t fixed, it shifts with the weather, the demand, and the memory of the last raid that forced a retreat by torchlight. Yet the torch remains popular, because a camp without light is a stage for failure, and a city without light dreams more slowly of dawn. Buyers speak of it as a simple necessity, a dependable partner for scouts who map out the frontier under starlight, and for smiths who need steady bands of heat to finish a blade after a night of hammering. Its uses extend beyond warming hands; it becomes a conversation piece in the field, a small relic of a life on the road. When the map shows a ruin iced by frost, the Strong Torch becomes a character in the tale, a steady witness to the steps of those who follow the lantern's trail. And so the afternoon fades, the market noise dimming to a clack of coins and the hiss of burning sap, while the Strong Torch keeps faith with whoever chose to carry it, a loyal ally in hours.