Sentinel's Soft Wood Scepter of Ice is carved from pale alder, its grain a whisper of frost. The shaft is smooth in the hand, the wood so softly polished that it yields a gentle warmth when you grip it, then chills as if whispering a winter secret. Along its length a braid of runes coils in icy blue, inlays of frosted brass catching the light and throwing a prismatic gleam onto nearby stone. At the head, a sentinel-hound’s muzzle curves into a wary snarl, eyes set with tiny sapphires that seem to glow when cold magic answers the call. The whole thing feels alive with memory—an artifact that remembers patrols through blizzards and the soft hush of snow sliding over frozen branches. When you lift it, you hear the echo of distant sentinels keeping watch, as if the wood itself is listening for the next winter wind. Its made-for-walking history is not merely ornamental. Legends say it was tempered in a glacial cave where winds spoke in a language of ice, then bound to a ranger who kept vigil over a corridor of frost-wreathed ruins. The scepter’s significance in practice sits at the intersection of memory and power: it is a conduit for icy disciplines and a compass for frost-borne decisions. In the hands of a practiced wielder, it channels chill into a calculated sting, freezing penchant for aggression, and laying down barriers that feel almost alive as they crystallize into watchful walls. It can bend the air to sweep a frost-blast across a troupe of foes, or coax a delicate ribbon of frost to shield an ally’s shoulder when the weather turns cruel. In quieter moments, the scepter becomes a storyteller’s prop—an instrument through which a caravan’s tale of endurance is told, the ice turning every tale of hardship into something measurable and precise. What makes it more than a relic is the way it threads into the world’s pulse. You’ll see it carried by travelers who barter for safety in the passes, by scholars who chase cold-through-light lore, and by guardians who prefer restraint over brute force. Its presence shifts small decisions—where to set camp, which routes to trust, and how to negotiate with traders who read frost as a language of caution. The scepter’s magic does not shout; it invites a dialogue with the weather and with the will of those who would use it to protect what lies beyond the next ridge. I watched a few nights ago as a vendor at Saddlebag Exchange fingered a Sentinel's Soft Wood Scepter of Ice like a map, weighing its history against the present need. The price hovered around a modest thrice-hero’s pay, a number that marks it as a coveted but not unattainable treasure—priced for those who understand its balance of memory and power. A bid came in, and the room exhaled as one, as if the winter itself approved the sale. In the end, the scepter found a new keeper, and with it, a new chapter in a long, wandering story about ice, memory, and the quiet strength to endure.