Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow

Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow rests on a sun-warmed, oil-dark counter, its limbs tucked into a loose scabbard. The wood is dense, with a fine grain that runs like cracked glass in lamplight. The surface bears a dull patina from years in the field, and small dents along the belly speak of arrows loosed in quick defense. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather, worn to a soft bevel, and the string—a pale, wolf-sinew thread—hangs with a purposeful slack that invites a smooth, practiced draw. Carved into the riser are minute sigils: a cleric’s hand, a vine, and a crescent that seems to catch the light when the bow is lifted as if blessing a shot. The finish is matte, so the weapon hides its secrets until you take it in hand and feel the weight settle, a balance between mercy and danger. This is not a mere tool; it’s a reliquary of field knowledge, a compact promise carried by a pilgrim-scavenger into ruin and sanctuary alike. Across the border markets, rumors travel as slowly as caravans, and prices drift with the season. I heard a trader mention it at Saddlebag Exchange, where every courier and guard trades tale with wares. There, the cleric’s bow is weighed in copper and small silver, its value rising when a temple recruiter seeks a quiet, precise instrument for wardens-in-training. The vendor told me a cleaned specimen could fetch a handful of silver, maybe more if the wood glowed in a certain light—an old trick of varnish and patience—while a well-spun string could double its worth during festival weeks. It’s a world where a single bow can fund a mile-long journey or buy time for a healer to rebind a shield. I left with the sense that every sale is a story and every buyer carries a ritual: to test the grip, to feel the grain, to listen for the faint twang that confirms a shot’s intention. Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow remains, in that sense, more than a weapon. It is a compact covenant between road and temple, a tool that lets mercy travel outward in the shape of a swift, sure arrow, turning ordinary hunts into small acts of salvation, one release at a time. During a dusk patrol along a ruined aqueduct, I watched a ranger with this bow ease from the shadow, releasing quick pulses that found two raiders before their torches flared. The draw moved with breath, and the shot sailed through hanging moss, slowing the raiders’ advance. The wood doesn't scream; it speaks softly through the release, a whisper that your aim is earned, not merely sharpened by steel. In that moment, the Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow is more than signature wood—it's a signal to trust training and to give mercy a chance to land before harm closes in. People ask if it's a relic, a fashion piece, or a practical tool, and I answer with the quiet smile of someone who has carried it across many dawns: it’s a partner in a living story, the kind of companion that binds a veteran to the next journey.