Slumbering Lightborne Short Bow

Slumbering Lightborne Short Bow rests on a worn table at the edge of a market stall, its limbs pale as frost, carved from a single slice of twilight-turned wood. The grain snakes like runes along the length, and faint lines of blue-white light trace the curves, pulsing with a soft heartbeat as if the wood dreams. The string, a slender thread of moonlit silver, hums gently when the bow is drawn, as if catching the sigh of the night. The grip is wrapped in dusk-soft leather, stitched with tiny, sleeping-face motifs that seem to blink if you tilt your head. A minuscule figure—an enshrined lightborne in blanket of shadow—peers from the riser, its eyes closed in reverie. It radiates warmth not through heat, but through a memory of dawn, a reminder that power can emerge from stillness. In hands, the bow feels like a secret kept in a pocket of night. Its arrows seem to carry a hush with them, gliding through air and armor with a glimmer of starlight. The shots land with a hush as much as a hit, the light trailing the target for a moment longer than a heartbeat, illuminating weaknesses, joints, subtle angles that would not reveal themselves to a louder weapon. Players who prize precision discover that the Slumbering Lightborne asks for patience: a measured draw, a careful aim, and in return a cadence that rewards restraint with cleaner, more telling strikes. The weapon invites you to listen to the battlefield’s breathing—the clash of steel, the thud of feet in the dust—and to let the moment resonate in your own arms before you release. Lore threads braid into the practical, too. Some elders whisper that the Lightborne who crafted this bow wove dreamstuff into the wood, so that every arrow can carry a night-sky lullaby. In skirmishes, that lullaby is not mere poetry; it anchors a story of mercy and timing, a legend that teaches that true force is tempered by what you choose to hold back. When a hunter uses it to tag a target, the world around can seem to slow, the team steadies, and a plan can be born from the silence that follows the shot. The market breathes with this tale as well. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade tales as readily as trinkets, the price becomes part rumor, part vow. A vendor will name a figure in gold, with silver coins tucked into a careful envelope of trade goods—the kind of bundle you juggle between dawn and dusk as you walk the river road. He will say it’s a fair offer, that the bow’s value lies not only in its glassy light but in the quiet courage of its user, and the long memory of the lightborne lineage. Some nights I hear the market's chatter fading as a single shot rings out, and I realize the bow belongs to the night as much as to the hunter, a quiet witness to the world’s turning.