Carrion Elder Wood Short Bow

The Carrion Elder Wood Short Bow rests on the desk like a quiet argument made of grain and sinew, its limbs lean and true as if carved from a whisper of midnight. The wood bears a leather-dark sheen, the surface slightly pitted where centuries of weather and use have left their mark. Runed grooves trace along the riser, catching the light with a pale, mournful glow, while bone inlays along the grip evoke a watcher’s talons—relic-like accents that lend the weapon an air of careful menace. The bowstring, taut as a first breath, is woven from preserved sinew and threadbare cord, creaking softly whenever the weapon is drawn, as if it remembers every footstep it has ever sent forward. It isn’t merely a tool; it is a memory pressed into wood, a hinge between hunter and hunted. Carrion Elder Wood, the name itself suggesting something beyond timber, speaks in whispers of the grove where these trees once grew: gnarled sentinels that weathered wars and funerals alike, their sap dark as a moonless pool. Legends say the elder wood was chosen by scavengers of death not for vanity but for resolve—the patience to wait for a target, the discipline to spare a killing until the moment was earned. The bow carries that lore in its grain: a patient hunter’s weapon, ready to flex and spring with quiet dignity. It looks as if it could be leaned against a mantle and still hum with the field’s stray wind, or slipped into a pack and vanish like a rumor when starry night falls. In the heat of a skirmish, the Carrion Elder Wood Short Bow feels earned rather than earned-awarded. Its balance favors swift, decisive shots at mid-range, a cadence that rewards a hunter who knows how to pace a fight rather than overpower it. Players who favor mobility find it a perfect companion for hit-and-run tactics: a quick volley to mark the moment, then a step back to reassert position while the target reels. The wood seems to “remember” every shot—recoiling not with fear but with a tempered resolve—so that even after a long chase, the weapon returns to aim with a calm certainty. It doesn’t boast flashy range or arcane quirks; it promises reliability, steadiness, and a certain austere elegance in every pull of the string. Market mornings lend the bow a different kind of life. Traders talk in low voices, fingers brushing the edge of the grip, weighing the wood as if weighing futures. In the bustle of Saddlebag Exchange, the Carrion Elder Wood Short Bow finds its price in the language of coins and barter, a balance struck between desire and necessity. A hunter who’s traded a road-worn path for a cleaner shot might part with a few silver coins, perhaps a sturdy quiver, perhaps a charm blessed by a campfire, all depending on how the day’s haggling unfolds. The exchange isn’t just commerce; it’s a ritual that threads together pockets of preparation, memory, and risk. Buyers and sellers leave with a decision made, and the bow stays ready, waiting for its next mark and the next story to be written with wood, string, and wind.