Void Corrupted Short Bow Skin

The Void Corrupted Short Bow Skin sits on the counter like a shard of night, its limbs carved from blackened wood and lacquered with a gloss that swallows starlight. Veins of violet energy trace the grip and riser, breathing with every breath the bow takes in and out of shadow. When you tilt it to the light, the runes along the limbs flare softly, as if something ancient stirs beneath the surface. The string is a thin, frost-hued line that trembles ever so slightly, and the notch at the arrow rest seems to hold a quiet, patient hunger. It feels both cold and intimate, a weapon that promises quiet leverage in the right hands. Lore whispers that this skin is not merely fashion but a relic wrought by hands who walked near the Void, coaxing a whisper of its hunger into wood and sinew. Some call it a blade that has learned to hush, others a memory of battles where hunters met the Void with steady patience and measured breath. In practice, the skin is cosmetic, yes, but it carries the weight of those stories into every skirmish. Any Short Bow in a player’s hands can wear this attire, and that freedom matters more than numbers on a stat sheet. It does not alter range, damage, or reload speed; it changes the silhouette, the way light plays on the limbs, and the mood the hunter carries into a fight. Against a dawn-lit ridge or a fevered dusk, the void-laced wood catches glints of purple that make the bow look as if it has drawn a promise from the night itself. It suits wanderers who trace shadows for a living, and yet it also marks a rare, almost ceremonial choice for someone who wants their legend to feel stitched from rumor and whisper. The skin’s value, in the field as in the market, is less about utility than identity. Traders who gather in the creaking hallways of Saddlebag Exchange will tell you that scarcity pushes the price upward when the winds carry tales of a new batch found in a ruined outpost. A seasoned buyer might speak softly of two gold coins, maybe a little more, for a specimen that pairs so well with obsidian armor or bone-white cloaks. Others offer rare trade goods—glimmering scrap, sigil ink, a pressed moth from the long night—for the chance to wear that same black-green glow on a winter evening or during a quiet vigil. Stories slip between haggles and nods, of hunters who kept the skin for years, polishing it until the violet threads spoke in their sleep, and of others who swapped it in a single exchange, knowing the Void will always barter with memory. And so the Void Corrupted Short Bow Skin travels through hands and campaigns, a small artifact that binds the wearer to a larger legend: a hunter who learned to listen to the quiet, to let the world’s darkness become a guiding hunter’s light. That quiet gleam, earned, keeps blooming with every choice.