Cleric's Elder Wood Longbow

Cleric's Elder Wood Longbow sits on the table like a relic that has learned to breathe. The bow is carved from a single trunk of elder wood, its grain curling like river paths beneath a warm, protective lacquer. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, etched with a sigil of healing that glows a soft green when the warmth of a healer’s prayer brushes the air. The limbs, slender and resilient, carry the long, quiet memory of early mornings in temple groves. The string, pale as bone and taut, hums ever so slightly when you draw, as if the forest itself is listening. A brass plate names the bow in a quiet, confident hand—Cleric's Elder Wood Longbow. Legends say it was hewn by a small caravan of clerics who tended wounded pilgrims along the roads to the Ember Gate, each swing of the limbs tempered by chants and careful hands. The elder wood is said to remember every face it has helped steady, blessing those who aim true and forgiving those who miss. In whispers, it is believed to carry a patient mercy into the heat of skirmish, turning arrows into a slower, surer pace for those who fight to protect rather than to dominate. When a bow like this is drawn, the air seems to soften—like a hymnal left open in a quiet chapel—so that partners in the field might move as one. On the battlefield, the Cleric’s Elder Wood Longbow becomes more than a weapon; it’s a conduit for a larger story. A capable marksman can thread shots between the bustle of combat to weave healing or protective batches into the moment of impact. Some talk of arrows that glow with a pale consecration, granting a shimmer of vitality to allies who stand nearby, while others speak of a steadier hand and a clearer mind when danger crowds in. It isn’t the loudest instrument in the choir of war, but it lends a steady rhythm to the fight—precise, measured, almost lullaby-like—so that the people it guards can hold their ground long enough for help to arrive. In the hands of a patient guardian, it becomes a narrative device—each shot a line of verse moving a party toward safety. Markets and memory mingle in the tale, too. In the river market, traders talk softly of value and demand, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a character in its own right. A trader there, with a sun-weathered face and a ledger full of unlikely sums, might murmur that a bow of elder wood, especially one blessed by clerical hands, carries a premium wherever the trade routes bend. The price tag, etched in brass and worn by years, has a way of guiding the curious toward risk and reward alike. The exchange knows the bow’s tale as well as its torque and timber, and the story it tells with every sale is as much about trust as it is about coin. And so the Cleric’s Elder Wood Longbow continues to travel, passed from hand to hand like a keepsake of mercy. It has the power to calm storms in the moment it’s drawn and to remind the bearer that strength, when tempered by care, can heal as surely as it harms. It remains, in the end, a thread in a larger tapestry of journeys—a weapon, a balm, and a whispered vow that the world can be steadier, for as long as one patient shot finds its mark.