Cleric's Destroyer Short Bow

Cleric's Destroyer Short Bow gleams under the lanterns, a spear of pale ash where the grain holds years like whispered prayers. The limbs are slim and disciplined, curved with the precision of a cathedral arch, and faint blue runes coil along the stock as if a current of healing light travels beneath the varnish. The grip is wrapped in ivory-tinted leather, smooth as a palm after a long vigil, and the brass inlays catch the light with a patient, almost ceremonial glow. A narrow crest sits near the nock—an open hand catching a dropping star—hinting at a lore that binds mercy to consequence. The string is taut as a vow, and when you draw it back you feel the bow’s temper: not a weapon of indiscriminate force, but a measured instrument, the kind a careful cleric would trust to deliver justice without waste. Its finish bears tiny, deliberate scratches—proof that it has survived long nights in a priest’s study, long patrols through rain-salted streets, and the rough kisses of battle where banners tremble and the ground remembers every fall. In its story-scarred wood there’s a current of reverence, as if the bow remembers the hands that forged it and the souls it helped guide. Those sigils aren’t mere decoration; they are a map of favors owed and promises kept, a lineage device that whispers of a cathedral-sentinel who learned to bend righteous light into a precise, healing sting. Some say the weapon’s name arose after a decisive encounter with a night-haunted foe, when a healer’s calm gaze and a hunter’s marked shot broke a siege’s darkest hour. The Destroyer’s bite, though filtered through faith, was never cruel. It was a measure—an instrument to shield the fragile, to puncture deceit, to thin the ranks of corruption long enough for mercy to find its footing again. When you carry it in the field, its use feels like a chapter turning in a larger saga. The bow favors restraint and accuracy over flashy speed: you take clean, careful shots that thread through gaps in armor and bodies, letting your allies advance with less squinting at danger. It’s a tool for sentences that end wars as they begin—cross the line with a whisper, heal the wounded with a second breath, then steadiness returns to the ranks. In the right hands, its arrows become pen-strokes on the marching chronicle—blessing and consequence written in the same stroke. The weapon’s aura makes you think of margins and margins: the moments when a single arrow saves a life, when a single bowstring answers a call to mercy as much as to war. Pricing trails behind such a relic, of course, and that’s where the market’s heartbeat adds another layer to its legend. I paused at a stall where vendors slide rare things across a linen cloth, listening to the careful arithmetic of demand and scarcity. The Clerk of the Exchange can name a number, but the world and its stories carry a heft no coin can measure. Saddlebag Exchange, the wayward caravan of items and memories, offered a rough barometer: a price that shifts with the moon, with skirmishes and pilgrimages, with whether the cleric’s order has a new radiant blessing to spare. You trade what you can—memory for memory, hope for hope—and walk away with the sense that some weapons are meant to carry more than a charge of doom; they bear a vow to guide, to protect, and to reveal the truth of good judgment in the heat of battle.