Cleric's Hard Wood Longbow

Cleric's Hard Wood Longbow gleams with a stubborn, sun-warmed grain; its limbs are stout, the wood darkened by years of rain and prayer, and the string sits taut like a quiet vow. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from long nights at the edge of campfires, where hands learned to steady themselves as the world grew louder with war and worry. The bow’s surface bears subtle sigils—thin, careful lines that seem almost to breathe when the light catches them—whorls of a rite old as the grove that yielded the wood. The limbs are carved with patient devotion, the heartwood dense and unyielding, so that a shot travels with a certain mercy, as if the weapon itself remembers the silence before impact. In its palette of browns and warm amber, it holds a memory of sanctified forest and the hands that pruned away fear, as if the wood itself wore a robe of planks and prayer. Lore ties the weapon to a lineage of guardians who tended that stretch of sacred woodland long before bustling markets learned to value its every knot. The clerics who blessed the stock believed the tree absorbed the prayers offered under moonlit canopies, turning every sigh of wind into a vow that a hunter’s arrow would neither waste nor wander. When a caravan passed through their valley, the bow would be laid across a table, its edges buffed to a sheen, and the scribes would inscribe the name of the land’s protector—an oath bound not just to the user but to a larger order that kept watch over the living wood. To hold it is to feel the echo of those quiet, ritual mornings when the forest spoke in creaks and rustles, and every release of the string was a moment of restraint rather than celebration. In the field, its significance blooms in practice as a blend of precision and purpose. The Cleric’s Hard Wood Longbow rewards steady hands and patient shots; it travels the arc with a steady patience, delivering arrows that seem to carry small blessings—bolstering allies with a faint, protective glow and sharpening the resolve of those who stand with the bow’s bearer. For rangers who walk beside healers, the weapon’s aura reads as a balance between offense and defense, a reminder that power can be quiet and disciplined. When a mark is found and the wind cooperates, the shot isn’t merely a strike but a tether—drawing focus, thinning distractions, and drawing a line between danger and those who rely on the bow’s calm truth. It feels less like a weapon and more like a pledge made aloud in a battle’s thick smoke. I drifted into the bustle of Saddlebag Exchange on that same day, where crates rattled and merchants called out prices in bright, knowing tones. The bow’s worth wasn’t a straightforward number but a ledger of stories, each coin a step toward keeping that old grove alive in a world that forgets prompts for mercy. The trader tucked a parchment tag into the grip and smiled: a price shrouded in copper and gold, a barter for relics that sang of old orders and new guardians. In the end, the exchange felt like a crossing, a point where the world’s need for craft, memory, and protection met the merchant’s knack for keeping faith affordable. The Cleric’s Hard Wood Longbow didn’t belong to any one person that day; it settled into a new tale, ready to be drawn again by whoever carries the weight of its quiet, sanctified wood.