Cleric's Elder Wood Short Bow

Cleric's Elder Wood Short Bow gleams with a pale, almost-white grain, its limbs slender and curved into a gentle arc like a whispered prayer carved in wood. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather the color of parchment, smooth to the touch yet yielding under pressure as if the wood remembers every touch. Brass runes trace along the riser, catching light and glowing faintly when the bow is drawn, as if a pact between wood and will were waking anew. The bowstring hums softly, lacquered to resist rain, and a faint resin bloom clings to the limb where tension gathers, as if the tree itself breathes a slow, patient breath. The name is inlaid near the nock in delicate script, a reminder that this weapon was born under clerical wards and ritual blades, not by accident but by oath. It feels ancient and intimate, a link in a chain of hands—craftsmen, healers, field guardians—each passing along a responsibility they do not name aloud. Lore holds that elder wood drank in prayers, tempered for balance rather than brutality. In the hands of a cautious ranger or a healer who keeps back from the front, the bow becomes a conduit for warding light as much as for dealing damage. An arrow seems to carry a measure of that oath, slipping through air with a hushed tail and delivering a moment of calm to an ally caught in danger. In skirmishes it rewards restraint: a measured release, a blink of a sigil, and the first marks on a foe become signals—blessings that bend fate toward survival. The bow’s weight and balance invite a ceremonial rhythm, as though every shot were a whispered agreement between marksman and grove. On the ground, the Cleric's Elder Wood Short Bow finds purpose in the space between protection and pursuit. It suits a hybrid role: keeping sightlines for healing pulses while delivering precise shots that disrupt enemy momentum without tearing the formation apart. When paired with a healer’s boon, an arrow can grant a temporary shield or set a ward that lingers as foes press forward. Its light draw makes rapid shots possible, yet it never forgets the discipline of patience—the difference between mercy and chaos is often a single well-timed quiver. Market chatter moves through caravan towns as surely as the wind. In the river markets, traders speak of the bow’s rarity and reliable demand among clerics and scouts. Saddlebag Exchange—an ever-bustling hub for price and provenance—often anchors the dialogue: a plain model might fetch a few silver, while a blessed variant bearing an etched sigil can command more than a gold, depending on conditions and repairs. A story-teller might swear the grove from which the wood came suffered a blight, nudging prices upward, while another swears it was a gift from a long-remembered patron. Either way, the bow’s appeal rests not just in its damage, but in the story it carries—the quiet strength of balance, the weight of tradition, and the promise that a new guardian will walk the road with mercy in their hands. To hold it is to feel a thread connecting past and present, a vow kept in the rhythm of breath and draw, waiting for the moment to be spoken again.