It is not clear why this wand, which requires so little in terms of special materials to construct, takes so long to form. It isn't the shape - there is no uniformity in the texture or appearance of the wood, metal or bone used to form the wand. It isn't anything to do with decoration - while traces of weltsilver ore are often used to colour the short baton, none of that mineral is actually required. Throughout the eight weeks or so that it takes for an artisan to craft one of these valuable implements, however, the wand-to-be must be handled constantly, smoothed and shaped by hand. For the best results the artisan speaks or sings to the item as it is slowly brought into being - many will sleep with the item beneath their pillow or beside their beds. They eat near it, drink near it, caress it and touch and hold it. There is a widely held belief that what is happening is that the artisan is teaching the wand about the shape and form of life itself, so it knows how best to shape the weaves of magic to restore it in others.
- Form: Weapon. Takes the form of a wand. You must be wielding this implement to use its magical properties.
- Requirement: You must have the magician skill to bond to this item.
- Effect: You may cast, or swift cast, the heal spell as if you know it.
- Materials: Crafting an acolyte's mercy requires no special materials. It takes two months to make one of these items.
He had never been able to grasp the intricacies of healing magic, his heart was full of the lust for battle; shattering the weapons of his foes and turning the blood of his enemies thick with poison, yet it had always pained him to watch kin die beside him with no means to help them. He clutched the wand tightly in his hands, the reflected firelight flickering along the metal.
He mused upon the words of his father, a skilled healer who had saved countless lives, and felt an echo of them whisper in his spirit, along with the touch of a departed hand on his shoulder.
"To heal, you must never forget the wounds of the past, my son"
He stared into the campfire before him, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames as if watching an unfolding play that only he was privy to. He began to sing, his voice soft but proud. The chains felt warmer to his touch as his tune filled the air, the sorrowful song lilting and passionate.
“Times of toil, times of strife
Bound in chains, our darkened life,
Never forgotten, never un-told
Story of blood worth more than gold.
Then he came, a saviour strong
His voice the singer of freedom’s song,
His arm the wrath of freedom’s ire
Fuelling the pride of orc-heart’s fire.
Battle won and battle earned
No longer orc –blood be Empire spurned,
From night-cloaked mines to blazing sun
Freedom earned and freedom won”