Dire Orrian Torch of Water

Dire Orrian Torch of Water rests in my hand like a sea-shell carved relic. The shaft is blackened ironwood, grain slick as a fish's flank, bound with eel-skin cord that smells of kelp and salt. The head is brass, hammered into a crescent that cradles a glass reservoir, inside which a pale aquamarine flame flickers, refracting light into droplets that cling to the wick. The surface of the flame seems to ripple, as if a tide hums beneath the glass; runes along the shaft depict rivers, waves, and the drowned city’s memory. When I tilt it, a cool mist spills, leaving beads on my knuckles, and the glow stays steady even when the air grows hot around me. As a relic from the shorelands, it is said to have been forged by a water-warden who bound flame to liquid, a weapon against the heat of towers. The dire tag signals hardship-born origin—the sort of thing sailors carried when the sea would not forget its debt. Legends say the Torch can coax spirit-water from air in damp caves, guiding lost caravans by internal tide-lines. In old maps, the torch marks a toll-station where the river narrows, and those guiding ships in the dark placed their trust. In practice, as you explore sunken ruins, the torch's water-soft glow is more than ambiance; it reveals sigils etched on basalt and makes salt-crusted inscriptions legible, like ghost-writing traced by water’s breath. It can illuminate passageways that fluoresce only under aquifer light, and its cool aura helps you withstand heat traps and magma vents in the tombs. When paired with puzzles, you can align mirrors to channel the beam, unlocking doors; in combat, the torch’s water vapor can dampen torches on foes—creating fog that obscures and buys you seconds to maneuver. It also serves as a morale talisman, a reminder of surviving the flood. On market days, you find it in Saddlebag Exchange, where storytellers and treasure-hunters barter in whispers as much as coins. A vendor with a hawk-nose offers prices that shift with the tide of demand—sometimes a handful of silver for common torchbearers, at other times a trade for a bundle of rare inks and a map fragment. I watched two buyers argue over a price spike, then settle on a compromise, the torch slipping from hand to hand as though it carried a living current. The feel is a utility piece that doubles as a keepsake, something a caravan would guard against the sea’s memory. Whether you carry it into a ruin or the shadowed lanes of a coastal keep, the Dire Orrian Torch of Water keeps time with the world’s tides, reminding you that light and water share a stubborn alliance. In the world it lights not only corridors but stories—of drowned cities, merchants gambling with risk and memory, and travelers learning to let a faint blue flame lead them home. Home, at last.