Knight's Hard Wood Short Bow

Knight's Hard Wood Short Bow gleams in the morning shop light, its limbs carved from a single stubborn piece of ash and sealed with a dull luster that remembers rain. The bow is compact, more sprung catapult than hunter’s longbow, the grip wrapped in weathered leather that smells of smoke and old wool. The wood’s grain runs in tight, deliberate arcs, a dark ribbon along the riser, while brass fittings catch every glint of sun like coins tucked in a squire’s pocket. A narrow line of subtle runes travels the belly and the grip, worn smooth by years of handling, as if the weapon itself keeps a quiet diary of battles fought and whispers kept. There’s a story pressed into the bow’s surface, a memory more tangible than date or name. People speak of a knight from a forlorn chapter of the Order who carved this spear-quiet instrument after a siege left the city streets still smelling of soot and thunder. He plucked the ash from trees that endured the fire, blessing his craft with the oath to aim true and to never waste a life if a shot could spare one. The result was not merely a weapon but a promise—that speed and precision could ride in harmony, that a hunter’s breath could slow the world long enough to find the heartbeat in a distant foe. In the heat of skirmishes, the Knight’s Hard Wood Short Bow proves its worth with a quiet, confident snap. It suits the agile marksman who favors mobility over raw power, a hunter who slips between pillars of shadow and returns with a heady rumor instead of a blaze. Its projectiles fly with a clean, piercing impulse, short limbs delivering rapid shots that can pepper a target with careful, well-timed strikes. At mid-range the aim is forgiving enough to reward practiced hands, yet precise enough to find gaps in armor or the quick seam between a foe’s shield and chestplate. It asks for discipline more than bravado, rewarding patience, timing, and the ability to read a battlefield like a street map after rain. Prices drift along the market wind, carried by roving merchants and the clatter of wagons. The same morning I watch a sturdy trader at Saddlebag Exchange lift the bow from its worn velvet lining and name a price that glints like coin under lamplight. Two gold, a handful of silver if you haggle with a hint of charm and a story to tell, he says, letting the leather creak in the wind as if listening to the bow’s heartbeat. It’s told and retold that the exchange holds more than rations and prints; it’s where old loyalties trade hands, where the faintest bowstring twang can rekindle a memory of a long-ago vow. A buyer leans in, eyes bright, and negotiates not just for the weapon’s power but for the weight of its history—the knight’s oath, the ash’s endurance, the runes that quietly remember every arrow loosed. When the sun climbs higher, the Knight’s Hard Wood Short Bow becomes part of a larger tale—one of caravans, close shaves, and the quiet courage of those who choose to shoot with precision when the world demands speed. It’s more than wood and string; it’s a chapter carried on the shoulder, a companion in the field, and a reminder that even a small weapon can carry a heavy, honest truth.