Gallant Torch Skin

Gallant Torch Skin sits in my palm like a small sun captured in brass. Its shaft is tempered gold, smooth to the touch, with coppery glints that catch the lamplight as I tilt it. The grip is wound in deep brown leather, stitched with ceremonial thread, and a ring of etched filigree runs around the base where the hand holds it. The flame itself is a living glow, amber at the core, with a pale halo that shimmers when wind or rain brushes the city’s arteries. On the head, a tiny crest—a knight’s helm rendered in enamel blue—sits above a spiral of laurel leaves and stars, as if guarding the flame from night’s quiet mischief. It feels heavy with stories, as if a long trail of travelers has pressed into its patina, leaving a whisper of distant markets and safeholds. Lore clings to its edges the way candle wax clings to a candlestick. The Gallant Torch Skin is said to have been forged by lantern-bearers who walked with caravans across the Sunless Steppe, feeding its ember from the memory of a hero who once lit a wounded king’s way. Some claim the blue enamel holds a drop of dusk from a battlefield, others insist the brass hums faintly when old oaths are spoken near its flame. In campfire stories, the torch refuses to burn away unless you carry it with purpose, turning its glow warmer when you move toward a chance to help someone. In practical terms, the skin changes how a traveler threads through the night. It doesn’t grant power or speed, but it casts a steady, comforting light that reveals hidden glyphs etched along shattered walls and the glimmer of rare herbs tucked beneath eaves. When you light it in a cavern or a moonlit ruin, the runes along the shaft wake and ripple, and the flame leans into your footsteps as if listening for a whispered direction. Companions notice it, too—the ceremonial glow adds a note of gravitas to a footpath home, a call to keep watch, or a quiet vigil beside a grieving hearth. I first learned its price not from a vendor’s spiel but from a stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where a leather apron and the itch of old coins hung in the air. The listing was plain: Gallant Torch Skin, 1 gold and 12 silver. The merchant’s eyes twitched with a half-smirk, as if trading fables for metal, then he nodded toward the door. I tucked the torch into my satchel beside rations and a map scarred by travel, and stepped away with the flame steady in my grip. Since then, the Gallant Torch Skin travels with me through rain-slick streets and shadowed trails alike, a bright instruction: keep moving, listen, and let the stories light the way.