Berserker's Serpent's Wrath Short Bow

The Berserker's Serpent's Wrath Short Bow rests on the table like a living ember, its limbs of dark elm catching a lacquered red glow that shivers with every breath you take. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather stitched with copper thread; it feels warm and alive in your hands, a rhythm beneath your fingers. Along the limbs a coil of serpents is carved in raised relief, each scale glinting faintly as if it held a hidden bite. A small sigil of a serpent's eye sits near the grip, and the wood seems to hum with something ancient—as if the bow remembers the hands that first swore its name. When you string it, the sound is not a twang but a whisper, a hiss that rises into a bright, clean note as if the weapon itself is tasting the air. The Serpent's Wrath has the look of a hunter's dream and a battlefield's rumor, a weapon born out of a pact made in blood and shadow, where a berserker channeled rage into a single, precise strike in which venom and light collided. Within the world, this bow is said to crave the moment you dare to chase a foe’s exposed flank. In skilled hands it becomes a storm of arrows, each shot quicker and sharper for every time the wielder pushes beyond safety. It rewards bold, close-quarters aggression and long-range patience alike: you surge to the heart of the skirmish, volley after volley seems to vanish in the air, and then a final, crimson-tinged shot pierces the guard’s edge where they thought themselves shielded. The serpentine motif is more than decoration: it’s a reminder that momentum can coil and strike when you least expect it. Veterans speak of the calm between shots as you weave through the fray, a moment to hear the bow’s whisper guiding your aim toward a foe’s hidden weakness. In group play it becomes a symbol of a ferocious frontline—the arrows carve a line through the tide, and the loot that follows feels earned, as if the world itself remembers the hunter who once claimed this weapon. On the road between camps, you hear rumors of prices attached to relics like this one. A savvy trader might check Saddlebag Exchange, where dealers haggle over the value of a serpent-wrapped relic as if it were a map to old fortunes. Today a Berserker's Serpent's Wrath Short Bow fetches around sixty gold, depending on polish, the runes that bless it, and how travel scars have worn the grip. A buyer learns to weigh the weight of history against the weight of a new strike, trading stories with the dealer as if the exchange itself were another mouth to feed. And so the bow passes from hand to hand, not merely as a thing that shoots through stone and bone but as a thread in a wider story—the frontier, the berserker vow, the rumor that travels farther than any arrow. It invites new hands to feel the coil and to test their nerve against the hiss of the string, to trust a serpent’s eye to catch a target and to trust themselves to be quick enough to hear the final sigh of a shot that may alter the course of a fight.