Carrion Hard Wood Short Bow

Carrion Hard Wood Short Bow sits in the lamplight of a weathered skiff-yard shop, its limbs a study in muted sinew and shadow. The wood, pale as bone but deeply grained, bears a finish that looks worn from centuries of use, yet it never seems to age. The grip is wrapped in boiled leather, dark as wet slate, stitched with threads that tingle with resin and a dryness that smells faintly of smoke. Along the limbs, tiny ridges thread like veins, and at the base a carved crest—perhaps a totem of a hunter who never slept—twines with the grain. When drawn, the bow gives a clean, snapping note, as if a quiet thorn had just been released. Lore speaks in hushed tones of carrion trees, old guardians of battlefields where the living and dead crossed paths; this bow, they say, is born of such trees—hard, resolute, patient enough to wait for the right moment to strike. In the world of hunters and caravan guards, its design favors speed and precision over reach, making it a favored companion for scouts slipping through brush or riders called to answer a sudden warning. The draw is crisp, the release a whisper, and arrows fly with a straightness that makes even a hurried flurry of shots feel rehearsed. The Carrion bow doesn’t turn every encounter into a duel; it turns the fight into a conversation where movement and timing decide the outcome. It rewards patience as much as nerve: you learn to wait for a target’s misstep, then—before you’ve registered the thought—the shaft finds its mark and the moment tilts toward your side. The wood’s memory, if one can anthropomorphize a tree, seems to sharpen the moment you glimpse a telltale glint in an enemy’s eye, converting hesitation into decisive action. It pairs naturally with light quivers, quick hands, and the kind of stealth that makes a hunter feel almost invisible, even when the world is watching. Market days give the bow a different rhythm, a pulse that travels beyond the shop’s door. I’ve watched it fade in and out of the crowd at Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling crossroads where traders bargain and a traveler’s coin earns a story as quickly as a string earns tension. The carrion wood’s reputation travels as quickly as a caravan’s wheels, and the price tends to drift with the wind: a practical mark for the field, a higher bid when a tale accompanies the blade. A veteran dealer might start at around a gold, nudging the total toward two if the wood bears a legend or if an eager buyer speaks of a night mission in which every arrow mattered. Yet even in that commerce, the bow remains more than metal and resin; it’s a reliquary of hunts, a token of nights spent listening for the sudden, a reminder that every journey ends back at the same quiet truth—the world gives back what you bring to it in kind. I’ve seen the Carrion Hard Wood Short Bow pass from hunter to hunter, from stall to traveler, a quiet witness to the long arc of a season’s hunt. It doesn’t shout; it hums with a patient, resin-slick resolve. And in the hands of someone who respects the memory of the woods, it becomes not just a weapon but a thread in a larger story—one where choosing the right tool is how you choose the next chapter to live through.