Rampager's Elder Wood Longbow

Rampager's Elder Wood Longbow rests on the worn oak table, its limbs carved from a single piece of elder wood, the grain alive with honeyed lines and faint green specks that catch the light as if a forest were breathing beneath the varnish. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with careful pride, and the string hums softly when drawn, a promise of sudden clarity rather than a whisper of doubt. Runes run along the edges of the limbs, etched in a hunter's script that predates most tavern quarrels, telling of a pact between a village bowyer and the forest itself: to give a hunter a steady eye and a patient hand. The bow's finish bears the scent of resin and rain, of late harvests and dawn patrols, and it feels almost part of the wood rather than a tool pressed into a hunter's grip. To hold it is to feel the pulse of the land—the way elder wood remembers every arrow fired from it, every rival shadow it has outshot. In the field, the Rampager's Elder Wood Longbow becomes more than wood and string; it becomes a line of defense for a wandering storyteller, a companion for a ranger whose name changes with the season. Its draw is neither brittle nor slack; it lands arrows with a quiet hunger, swift enough to melt into the fog and precise enough to split a coin upon a distant branch. For players, its significance lies in how it blends durability with reach, letting a hunter lodge shots through gaps in cover, or pace a pursuit across treeline when the pack is closing in. The lore suggests that the elder timber carries memory—the kind that lets a veteran feel a target’s heartbeat through ten yards of rain, or hear the whisper of a trailing rival in a moonless night. Price, of course, is a current tale told in copper and gold, traded between hands that know the risk of selling a legacy. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a weather-beaten vendor would tilt the bow in the lamplight, tracing the runes with a careful fingertip, and speak of a fair trade: around two gold pieces, give or take a coin or two, for a weapon that has earned its keep across a dozen campaigns. The coin goes toward leather markings, a sturdy saddle, and perhaps a promise to guard the next hunter who earns the right to claim this elder-born longbow. And so the Rampager’s elder wood keeps moving, silently tucked into satchels and packs, a thread in a larger story of forests, routes, and the quiet courage of those who choose to shoot first and listen later, letting the wood decide where the next arrow will fly. In every quarry and every campfire, the bow uncurls a memory of hunts past and futures yet to come, a quiet ambassador between wood, hunter, and wind, guiding arrows toward truth as much as toward danger, and teaching patience to those who wait for the moment.