Knight's Destroyer Short Bow

Knight's Destroyer Short Bow rests in the glow of a lone lantern, its limbs forged from stubborn dark ash that catches the light like old iron. The riser is a ribbon of blackened wood wrapped with worn saddle leather, the stitching a pale, patient pattern that a hundred apprentices could recite by heart. Etched along the belly are minute runes—tiny constellations of metal and memory—glinting when the torchlight skates across them. A brass emblem of a knight’s helm is pressed into the grip, half-erased by rain and road dust, as if the wearer once wiped it clean with a sleeve. The string hums with promise when drawn, and the ends are capped with silvered ferrules that catch a wind like a flag. In its shadowed curves one can imagine a knight, not so long ago, waiting behind a wall to all but exact a silent vow. Locals whisper that it was forged in the last siege of a river fortress by a smith who swore fealty to a forgotten order, the Knight’s Destroyers, whose code demanded mercy to the weak and ruthlessness to the tyrant. The bow’s wood bears scars not from battles alone but from weather—salt, sun, rain—and each mark is said to tell a tale: a failed ambush, a narrow dodge, a horse’s startled breath. When a hunter strings it, the weapon seems to reach beyond its owner, as if the knightly oath binds the string to the land and the land to those who need its protection. Those who handle it claim that aiming feels more honest, as if the arrow remembers the knight’s intention before the hand does. On the ground it becomes a piece of a larger story—the quick, precise work that's asked of a short Bow in skirmishes, where shadows circle and a single clean shot can turn the tide. It rewards patient breath and swift fingers, letting a scout thread through the treeline with a steady hand, or slip a shot through a gap in a formation when the enemy’s attention is elsewhere. In the right hands, the Knight’s Destroyer becomes a companion for taking down light armor or chasing a fleeing foe, its tip biting with certainty and its rhythm never quite letting go. It is not just a weapon but a character’s voice—quiet, relentless, and sure of what must be done when a caravan’s fate hinges on a single clever shot. Merchants along the road whisper of the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay wares on rough tables and haggle beneath canvas. It’s there that a bow like this finds its next chapter, priced between the gold of seasoned explorers and the coin of safer hands, depending on the wind in the market and the story carried by the buyer. The exchange doesn’t just sell; it tells stories—the same ones that gave the Knight’s Destroyer its legend—and the price tag, ever-changing, glints in the lantern light as if to remind the buyer that every great weapon travels with a price, and every hunter should know the cost of their oath.