Malign Green Wood Short Bow

Malign Green Wood Short Bow gleams with a sickly, glassy green, its limbs curved like a branch bent by a restless wind. The wood grain crawls along the surface, a living map of knots and veins, and the texture feels resinous under gloved fingers, rough at the grip and smoother toward the tips where the lacquer has worn thin. Narrow runes ride the riser in a ghostly script, blinking faintly when light catches them, and a shred of leather-wrapped grip bites back at the palm with a firm, familiar bite. The string is taut as a drawn breath, humming with a quiet, almost insolent note that hints at a pact the wood once kept with a forest watcher. Lore whispers say the Malign wood was grown near a hollowed spring guarded by rangers who traded bone-withered charms for steadfast arrows, and that the bow remembers every oath sworn to keep the wild in balance. In battle, the Malign Green Wood Short Bow feels like a whisper that suddenly becomes a shout. It wants to be drawn in a heartbeat, to spit three quick shafts before the eye can blink, to thread through gaps in armor with surgical precision. Its weight is light enough for long, fluid strings yet with enough snap to sting even durable hides. Players who lean into its rhythm report that shots seem to carry a bite of the forest: a momentary bleed, a prickly poison, a mark that won't fade after the arrow leaves the limb. It pairs naturally with a hunter's more calculating stance—peel back a shot to stagger a foe, then slip away before the world can answer back. The lore-streaking runes glow brighter when nature and wrecked steel collide, as if the bow feeds on the tension between person and place; in the right hands, it becomes not just a weapon but a way to tell the terrain how to reveal its secrets. I found the bow propped on a sun-flecked stall as dusk bled through the market eaves, the kind of place where names blur into stories and every sale carries a risk and a rumor. Saddlebag Exchange, a ledger-scented shop that trades in dreams and daggers alike, laid its price out in neat lines: seven gold, two silver, and a promise to deliver it with a courier who knows the road as well as any oath. The seller warned that the Malign wood might demand patience—let it choose its master, they said, and I could feel the quiet assertion of the forest behind every vow. I paid the coin and accepted the bow, trusting that the world would begin to bend toward the truth the moment its string sang in my hands. And so the Malign Green Wood Short Bow joins my journey, a collaborator of the night-wind and a reminder that every tool carries a story, and every hunter carries a story back to the world. Its glow steadies my hand as I walk the line between courage and caution.