Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow

Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow rests on a sunlit crate, its limbs of hard wood gleaming with a honeyed gloss. The grip is wrapped in suede, dyed the color of dried bloodroot, and the tiller is etched with sigils that shimmer faintly as if imbued with a patient, whispered prayer. The string is a pale twist of sinew, taut and unyielding, like a vow pulled tight in time. Its curvature is modest, favoring fast, precise shots. Every line is clean, free of extraneous ornament, except for a narrow inlay of bone-white runes along the riser that tell of a lineage older than the walls of any chapel. The wood itself seems to remember days of rain and dust, a grain that runs like a river under lacquer, suggesting endurance and mercy. Legends say it was carved by a monk who traded quiet labor for a shelter, binding blessing into the wood so that arrows carry calm as well as fire. Its lore binds iron will to restorative hands—the cleric who uses it believes precision can keep the wounded alive longer, that a well-placed shot can seal a failing stream of life as surely as a healing circle can restore a broken bone. Beyond the chapel, the Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow is not only a weapon but a symbol: a compact instrument of discipline used by scouts and healers when the road grows hostile. In close skirmishes near abbey ruins or market streets, its short reach favors quick engagements, a hero's arrow halving threats before they spread. Its wood holds memories of hunters who walked with quiet purpose, and its sting returns with a rhythm to which the wearer must learn to respond. Travelers speak of it with care, not as vanity but as a tool that can ferry a village through siege or drought. In the bustling bazaar, Saddlebag Exchange hosts a steady line of patrons who barter and haggle, dreaming of a master gifting a weapon of prayer to a hopeful apprentice. A vendor measured the bow's feel, checking tension and resonance as if the instrument kept time. He said prices hovered around two-and-a-half to three gold in winter's slack—or roughly forty to sixty silver on a fair morning's run. The line between relic and ordinary tool is thin, and the Exchange never pretends otherwise; care for the wood and respect for its story can fetch higher coin or a chain of favors. Back on my shoulder, the bow sounds like a small organ, a creak and whisper that calls for precision. It is not merely about damage but about keeping faith with the road and the hands that blessed it. In the end, Cleric's Hard Wood Short Bow is less gear than a compact legend, ready to be drawn, to be nocked, to remind the traveler that mercy can travel with arrows, and that every journey deserves a quiet, steady aim. Its story travels with you, whispered between squeak of leather and the pull of string, guiding your hand home.