Green Short-Bow Stave

Green Short-Bow Stave rests on a sun-warmed counter; its surface glows with mossy green lacquer, the grain curving like a river. The bow-stave is compact and serpentine, about the length of a forearm when bowed, with a grip wrapped in cracked leather that smells faintly of cedar and rain. Its ends are sealed with brass rings etched with leaf motifs; along the core runes are pressed into the wood—tiny sigils that shimmer when the light catches them. The texture alternates between satin-smooth on the grip and fretful grain along the belly, where the wood has known years of use. It looks as if it has watched a hundred dawns rise over a forest, and its lore is whispered in the market stalls: a blade of emerald civilization grown from an old grove that the druids once swore to protect, a heirloom tied to the Verdant Court’s ranger watchers. Some say the stave remembers the breath of a forest spirit that blessed it, granting a hunter steadiness even when the wind would rather scatter a volley. In the hands of a practiced ranger or a scattershot adept, the Green Short-Bow Stave becomes more than a pretty object. It is a conduit, a way to bend verdant energy into precise, rapid-fire shots. When drawn, the stave seems to drink light; the first arrow rings with a crisp snap and a trace of green that trails like a glimmering leaf. In skirmishes around crumbling ruins or shadowed hedges, it makes each bolt feel intentional, as if the forest itself had chosen the target. The weapon’s signature is not only its range but the way it amplifies marksmanship—quick taps of the string can release shots that bend slightly toward the living earth, enhancing poison-coated or crippling bolts, and sometimes summoning a brief ward of green light that protects the wielder from a sudden breach of injury. Its role in a larger tale is the same as the forest in a storm: a steady presence that returns, again and again, to remind the world of balance. Market chatter has plenty to say about such a relic. At Saddlebag Exchange, where travelers trade trinkets and tales for coin, a Green Short-Bow Stave can command a premium: polished, with a history and a promise of reliability in the field. A vendor might price it around a couple of gold, depending on rune quality and the vendor’s mood, but there is always room for negotiation in the glow of lantern light. A buyer who lingers knows they are purchasing not just a weapon but a story—the same story that threads through the old grove and the road-weary campfire, a story that says the wild still remembers us, and we by lending it a hand, remember it back. Those who carry it treat the stave as a companion, a quiet oath spoken in the rustle of leaves. When storms gather, it glows a touch brighter, inviting trust, and reminding its bearer to walk with care through the living world.