Berserker's Hard Wood Longbow

Berserker's Hard Wood Longbow glints in the market sun, its limbs carved from a single stout trunk, the grain a river of amber and umber that seems to tighten and relax with the bow's own breath. The bark is gone, replaced by a satin finish that catches every lamp's flare, while the grip is wrapped in tanned leather worn smooth by years of use. Runes run along the riser like quiet weather, shallow grooves that catch the light when the bow is drawn, promising that the weapon knows your name if you listen close. The string is taut as a drawn bowstring can be, whispering with a wind-chime when you test the draw; a little hum rises in the wood, as if the forest itself approves of the aim. In the lore of the forest clans, this bow is said to be carved from wood that soaked up a berserker's fury after a doomed charge, binding the war-whoop of the rider to the archer's hand. Some say the weapon remembers every clash, storing the heat of battle like embers in its grain, so that a shot at the moment of anger carries a little extra push, a crackle of violent resolve. In the field, the Berserker's Longbow is not merely a tool but a partner in a wider dance. Its power is not purely raw; it rewards restraint as much as ferocity, making it ideal for poking at distant foes while you build up your own sanguine resolve. When you string it and draw, you feel the weight of intention—Power and Precision aligned to sketch a blade-thin line through air and armor. It fires with a clean, clean crack that travels farther than a casual observer expects, and those who chase critical hits sense the Ferocity wake that follows each perfect release. Archers who learn its rhythm find themselves weaving shot sequences that cover retreat, sniper-like picks off casters, or a rapid series of bolts to split a tight knot of enemies. In a larger story, the bow sits in a village ledger, a family heirloom turned working tool, passed down when the clans gather, traded on quiet nights along a road that runs between hemispheres of trading posts. On market days the saddle-worn traders of Saddlebag Exchange haggle over its price as if it were a living thing, turning the wood in their hands and weighing the weight of copper and silver in their pockets. The vendor speaks in a hundred tongues, and someone brings the leather pouches to lay down their coins, while others slide the bow along a blanket to price-tag it, offering a fair sum for the skilled hands that will claim it. If you walk away with it, you're not just arming yourself; you are stitching your name into a longer corridor of hunters who, for a moment, believed they could outrun the world with a single, precise, fearless pull. Its next owner will decide the rest of the tale, drawing a line generations remember.