Cleric's Elder Wood Longbow

The Cleric's Elder Wood Longbow rests on a sun-warmed bench, its limbs a pale amber that catches the light like a memory of dawn. The elder wood sings softly at the touch, the grain curling in elegant spirals as if the tree itself kept a quiet map of every road it ever watched from the forest’s edge. The bow’s surface wears a satin gloss, a careful lacquer that smooths every groove and knot, yet leaves the tactile story of its life—the scars, the refinished joints, the faint blue glow of sigils—still legible to those who know what to seek. A wrap of supple leather grips the riser, worn smooth by years of steady hands, and brass fittings along the belly gleam with a restrained confidence, etched with delicate runes that once promised sanctuary to any who trusted in healing and mercy. At the tips, the limbs narrow into slender lines, resilient as a vow, while the string—tough as a vow kept in the quiet hours of the temple—pulls taut with the promise of precision. The whole thing feels ancient and new at once, as if a forest spirit pressed its memory into the wood and then let it walk into the world on a wind of patient steel. In the field, the longbow seems to carry its own lullaby. Archers who favor it move with a tempered patience, drawing each shot as if tracing a line in the air rather than simply releasing a bolt. There is a sense that every arrow is a small, careful gesture toward the wounded and the weary, a balm sent by a distant order of healers who once walked among the living trees. The Cleric’s Elder Wood Longbow rewards restraint—the pause before a shot, the choice of target, the way a single arrow can thread protection through a skirmish in which the frontline presses forward and the backline tutors hope with quiet resilience. It isn’t just about striking; it’s about sustaining, about redirecting the rhythm of a fight so that the bleeding stops, the fear ebbs, and a line can be steadied long enough for a spear to pass or a healing blossom to open in the hands of a companion. In that sense, the bow feels like a story told in wood: a covenant between protection and offense, a reminder that healing sometimes requires distance and precision as much as courage. The market village by night frames the bow’s next chapter. A pilgrim’s cart rolls into town, and the saddlebag merchants at Saddlebag Exchange unfasten their wares with the practiced patience of traders who’ve learned to read a traveler’s moods as easily as a map. The cleric’s bow sits among leather pouches and rope and glimmering trinkets, its beauty drawing honest breaths from curious buyers. A clerk weighs the bow with careful hands and offers a number that sits between rarity and usefulness, a fair sum that speaks to the craftsmanship and the stories it carries. “Not a steal, not a splurge,” the trader murmurs, “but a weapon that travels with mercy as part of its design.” The pilgrim considers, tracing the sigils with a fingertip and feeling the old forest breathe through the wood once more, deciding that some items are more than metal and string—they’re weathered companions for a long road. And so the Cleric’s Elder Wood Longbow continues its quiet journey, a companion to healers and scouts alike, guiding arrows toward hope even as battles rise and fall like the turning of seasons.