Carrion Hard Wood Longbow

Carrion Hard Wood Longbow rests against a weather-beaten post, its limbs a sinuous, almost lacquered brown, the grain curving like rainwater trapped in time. The bow's surface catches the light with a subtle resin gloss, as if the wood keeps a memory of storms within its rings. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched close to the wood until it feels nearly a part of the bow itself, and the sinew string is taut as a held breath. Along the riser a line of carved sigils, jagged only at first glance, tell of a maker who traded in scavenger lore—hints of carrion trees and the hard, living patience of the forest. A small bone inlay near the lower limb glints when the sun hits it just right, like a silent bead of caution: do not rush the shot. This longbow carries more than wood and leather; it carries a story of salvage and resilience. Carrion hard wood is said to grow in soils touched by decay, a rare timber that survives rot where other trees would bow in retreat. In the hands of a hunter, it becomes a quiet partner—weighty enough to anchor a measured draw, light enough to move with the hunter’s rhythm. The arrows it furls leave a narrow, clean wake; there is no clang, only the soft whisper of a breath released at the moment of impact. In the field, the bow’s draw invites patience: line up the shot from a sheltered vantage, read the wind threaded through branches, and release to kiss a target’s edge of vulnerability. In the world where scouts trace caravan routes and farmers mend their fences at dusk, that patience matters. A Carrion Longbow doesn’t win battles by itself, but it makes a hunter’s plan tangible—stretching the distance between threat and surprise, letting a ranger pick off a jittery scout from behind a fallen log, or pin a skittering foe before the squad’s advance. Its potential is in precision, not bravado; the rhythm of a deliberate draw, the satisfying thump of the string, the arrow’s clean arrival where the aim was set. The weapon’s lore grows with every mile of travel, with every night spent in a camp where stories of carrion trees migrate between the embers. On a sun-warped afternoon along a muddy market causeway, I watched a trader from Saddlebag Exchange lay the Carrion Hard Wood Longbow on the counter for examination. The price ticked in quietly, a fair sum dotted with bargaining, and the dealer spoke of maintenance—how a wax cloth would keep the sinew supple, how dried resin would stave off humidity in the rainy season. The exchange itself felt like a camp meeting—a caravan’s shared memory, where a weapon is traded not just for gold but for trust. By the time the bow found a new owner, it had already threaded a larger narrative: of road watchers and rain-lashed forests, of people who keep their distance until the moment a shot can tell the truth of the aim.