Assassin's Elder Wood Torch

Assassin's Elder Wood Torch rests in the palm like a relic of midnight, its elder-wood shaft dark as wet slate, the grain fine and almost inaudible to touch, with a brass collar at the mouth polished by countless hands. The wick, wrapped in a whisper-thin braid, catches a pale blue flame that seems to bend with the wood’s grain rather than burn against it. Runic etchings coil along the shaft, catching the light and throwing back a sigil or two as if the torch were listening as much as it glows. It feels both ancient and practical, as if the flame itself were trained to walk a path the wearer cannot see. The scent is resinous and faintly bitter, the kind of smell that lingers after a corridor of shadows has finally exhaled. Lore threads, almost too soft to name aloud, weave around it. Elders of the Order of Whispers are said to have used elder wood torches to trace routes through hidden courtyards and moonlit alleys, where truth slips between footprints. This particular torch carries a discreet sigil—an eye bridged by a blade—carved into the base, a token of hunts long completed and promises kept to the shadows. When you lift it, you sense the light not as bold assault but as a careful invitation: a lantern that becomes a map, a guide that doesn’t intrude on the night but negotiates passage through it. In practice, the Assassin's Elder Wood Torch feels like a companion on every night voyage. In damp caverns and ruined outposts, its glow reveals parchment maps and glyphs inked in secrecy, the kind of markings that only reveal themselves when a careful flame wavers near. It does not blind the eye so much as tilt it toward what was once written in the margins—an inscription that guides you to the hidden switch, a doorway etched with a motif that only a true flame can coax into life. For scouts and night-wellers, the torch is a tool and a talisman: it lights the path ahead, steadies a pace through the uneasy quiet, and signals trusted allies when harder silhouettes press in from the sides of vision. Trade has its own stories, too, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the item’s value is weighed against memory and craft. The stall’s keeper—a weathered trader used to shadows and bargaining—took the torch in hand with care, turning it slowly to catch the frost-dusted glow of the flame. “Rare work, this,” they murmured, eyes tracing the sigil at the base. “Not just wood and metal; it carries a line of history.” When the coins clinked, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon and damp leather. The price, spoken in the calm currency of two silver pieces, a silver and some copper, felt modest for such a piece—not merely a tool but a narrative that travels with you, a token of timing and trust in a world where light is as much weapon as warmth. So the torch sits, not as a mere instrument but as a fragile compass. With each step, it asks you to listen to the night a little longer, to follow the thread of a story that threads your own footsteps with those who came before. And as the flame steadies, you carry more than a glow—you carry a history that knows your pace and is ready to walk the next corridor with you.