Hunter's Soft Wood Focus

Hunter's Soft Wood Focus rests in my palm, a slim curved shard of pale ash. The grain curves in honeyed swirls, and the edges feel smooth as river stone. Runed spirals lace the rim, and a ring of resin binds a seam where the branch once joined the tree. Its surface wears a soft patina from rain and road, and a tiny crack under the underside hints at years of travel. At the heart, a faint green glow breathes within, barely visible until called to life. It looks less manufactured than consecrated, as if the forest itself approved the oath of whoever chooses it: to watch, wait, and strike. Lore is whispered through pines about the focus being carved by a hunter who slept beneath evergreen and woke with the forest’s memory in his hands. When he used it, tracks appeared where none stood, and the prey’s instincts sharpened with each leaf turn. The Hunter's Soft Wood Focus feels less like a tool and more like a wild ally, made to keep pace with the forest’s language rather than bend it to human will. Its sheen hints at stories not yet told, and you glimpse the forest’s patience in every glimmer. In gameplay, the focus becomes a partner in that story. Its magic flows with the steadiness of a forest path. It steadies the hand on the draw, nudges aim toward decisive hits, and channels energy into healing and shielding. When a hunter rings the focus into action, boons flicker to life a touch sooner, vigor pools refresh with patient cadence, and guardians bend light toward those who need it most. The Soft Wood listens for movement, guiding the wearer’s gaze to the next target, the next breath, the next benefit to share with comrades. It’s the kind of item that makes the world feel watched—and you find yourself watching it back. If you listen, you can hear the forest calling you to pause, to wait for the moment to act. On market day, Saddlebag Exchange hums with hushed bargaining and bright coins. A trader with a weathered hat handles the focus with care, as if it deserves a quiet room and a good lamp. The price sits in the middle of copper and silver, not a fortune, but not a bargain either—the kind of value tied to a forest’s steady wealth. The exchange smells of pine and leather, a reminder that some things are meant to be carried from camp to camp, dawn to dusk, into the hands that will walk the woods at night. Sometimes a whisper travels across Saddlebag Exchange—a rumor of a better stash of timber for a fair coin. If you cradle it long enough, you’ll feel the forest’s breath in your palm and know you’re not alone out there. In the quiet hours after nightfall, the focus and the forest tally their steps, and the hunter’s memory feels less like history and more a map you can live by. Tonight, too, for the road.