Rejuvenating Dredge Reflex Bow

The Rejuvenating Dredge Reflex Bow rests cool and heavy in my palm, its limbs a delicate arc of wood lacquered to a dull gloss, the sinew taut as a hunter’s nerve. The wood wears the patina of a river’s memory, grain braided with resin, edged in dark bone recovered from a dredge relic. The grip is wrapped in rough leather, scarred by travel, with brass rivets catching the candlelight. Along the riser runes glimmer faintly—spirals and sigils that promise patience from a stubborn earth. The string, stitched from quiet-binding cord, hums with a restrained energy, and when drawn, the weapon exudes a breath-like sigh as if listening for a wounded world to be mended. It is said the dredge smiths tempered this bow by coaxing life back into brittle wood and sealing it with mineral magic and cave air that still tastes of damp stone. In the field, the sigils flare when a shot lands, weaving a thread of healing into the fray. The Rejuvenating Dredge Reflex Bow does not simply puncture armor; it returns a touch of vitality to those nearby. A precise hit might ripple outward in a small healing aura, or grant a momentary regeneration that steadies a skirmish’s rhythm. For a ranger who threads movement with mercy, the Reflex is a quiet partner: it keeps pace with the stubborn tempo of a long pursuit, letting a hunter retreat, recompose, and press on with a lighter burden. The bow’s essence is not merely in damage but in narrative—every arrow writes a line in a larger story of miners, cave-lords, and the missing pieces of wrecked expeditions slowly stitching themselves back together. Prices of such relics drift through markets as rumors do, sliding on the river of demand. On a sun-slick morning at Saddlebag Exchange, a clerk laid eyes on the bow and spoke in measured tones, naming the price in glinting coins and traded trinkets. Two gold and a moonstone, perhaps, or equal value in practical barter from a steady hand. The price feels fair to those who ride the line between danger and hope, because a weapon that heals as it harms changes a mission’s geometry: it turns a reckless sprint into a measured advance, a retreat into a plan, a despairing night into dawn’s quiet certainty. Maybe that is why the bow feels less a tool and more a memory; a memory carved in the cavern’s echo and traded among hands that know the weight of waiting. Beyond the battlefield, its lure is tied to a larger, grounded reverie of the dredge and the communities that barter for survival in the dark. The runes still glow when the wind shifts, and a hunter who carries it learns to read the cave’s heartbeat as if it were a companion—silent, patient, always listening for the next step toward home.