Rampager's Elder Wood Short Bow

Rampager's Elder Wood Short Bow rests in the morning sun, its limbs carved from a single, ancient elder tree, the grain curling like inked riverbeds under a patient hand. The wood carries a pale amber patina, threaded with faint green resin that glints with the light, as if the forest breathed through the varnish. The grip is wrapped in worn tan leather, scarred from years of steady fingers and ten thousand small adjustments, while the bowstring—twisted from sinew and dusk—sits taut with quiet resolve. Along the belly, runes coil in a hunter’s script; near the tip, a carved stag’s head watches the shooter, a totem whispered about in campfires and market stalls alike. It feels not simply crafted, but claimed by a story longer than any one lifetime. Draw it and you hear the forest lean in—crisp wood, quick snap, and a whistle that sounds like a bird startled into flight. The Rampager’s name is no flourish here: the bow favors speed over brute range, rewards the hunter who moves, who anticipates, who can vanish between breaths and let a second shot ride the afterimage of a step. In skirmish, its short limbs pull tight against a practiced hand, spitting arrows with a cadence that keeps pressure on a pursuer while the next shot finds purchase through light cover. Players often pair it with a Power-Precision temperament, letting ferocity rise as the target wails under the flurry of coppery shafts and the hunt continues beyond the clearing. Town merchants will tell you a different kind of story at Saddlebag Exchange, where a bow like this sits on a rude wooden rack that smells of oil and pine. The stall would quote a price that sits somewhere in the silver-to-gold range—enough to tempt a true hunter, not a dreamer—especially if the wood bears extra sigils or a storyteller’s initials etched on the grip. The dealer’s scale clinks as testimony to the bow’s age and heart, and the haggle is a ritual: a few copper added here, a trade for a salvaged quiver there, until both sides hear the agreement ring true. For some, the bow passes hands as a trust, for others, it becomes a key to a new chapter in their personal wilderness. Even after the sale is sealed, the Rampager’s Elder Wood Short Bow continues to speak in quiet, weathered tones. It is memory and instrument, history pressed into the wood, a companion that can outpace a storm and keep a hunter honest as they cross the turning seasons. In the world it occupies, every notch and etched rune is a vote for movement, for patience, for the hunt that never ends. If you pause at the edge of a quiet grove and listen, you might hear the wood sigh with approval—ready to carry the next hunter farther than the last, until the forest itself asks for the bow to tell its next tale. Some nights, the bow seems to hum softly, a promise that every hunt will be meaningful and that every arrow will land true when the wind is right.