Strong Torch

Strong Torch sits on the table as if it had just stepped off a caravan. The brass casing wears a patina of dust and travel, with a dented edge where a careless hand once nudged it free from a backpack. Its glass globe is thick and clear, catching the room’s light and turning it into a slow, amber pulse. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, the grain tamed by years of fingers, and a steel ring runs along the seam like a map’s edge. The flame inside is stubborn, a pearl-orange glimmer that resists rain and wind, held in check by a wick that seems to understand getting from dawn to dusk. The engraving around the mouth is precise, a whisper of old caravans and new journeys. Legends say it was forged at a harbor forge where lantern-makers bottle the night. It traveled along river roads and dusty passes, traded for stories as much as for coin. Some call the Strong Torch lucky: guards used it to watch on a cliff road when fog rolled in from the sea; explorers claimed it helped them keep formation through a cave. People say the flame remembers, a tiny witness to every decision—when to hold, when to press on, when to wait for dawn. If you listen closely while you cradle it, you hear the hiss of a wick that has watched a thousand horizons go by. In game terms, it is less a flashy weapon and more a patient companion. Light is a map, and this torch gives you one that endures. It reveals tracks pressed into damp stone, makes glyphs on altars legible, and keeps the shadowed corners of a dungeon from swallowing your party whole. Beyond quarries and candle-lit taverns, the torch signals your presence to wary patrols, lets you stomp out a campfire to save wood, or coax hidden levers into answering your question. A Strong Torch can also be handed to a companion, its glow rooting the group in one steady march through the dark. Prices drift in the market like smoke, and the stall carrying the Strong Torch looks steady as a lighthouse. I watched a young merchant haggle, the brass breathing in and out with the flame as if it had a heartbeat. The price? A few copper if you’re lucky, a silver or two if the wood of your pack creaks with need. Saddlebag Exchange is where the talk happens—stories of long nights weave into the cost of a light that rarely quits. The torch is more than metal and wick; it is a promise that someone will lead a party through a cave mouth or a rainstorm with a steady glow. By dusk the Strong Torch rests in its box, glow dimming to a warm wink. It is a quiet hero of the road, a tiny beacon inviting you to press on, trade a tale, and follow the lantern-lit thread through the night. Its flame keeps walking with you, even when the road disappears behind you.