Shaman's Etched Greatbow of Rage

Shaman's Etched Greatbow of Rage rests on a velvet-wrapped stand, its deep ashwood curves catching the light like a living ember. The limbs sweep wide, strong and patient, as if drawn from a creature that learns the wind’s secrets. The surface bears a lattice of fine, crimson sigils—shamanic runes threaded through the grain, each line a memory of storms and famine and prayer. The grip is wrapped in cracked brown leather that bears the shine of many battles, and the sinew string—braided from the hides of creatures long forgotten—whispers softly whenever the archer’s hand tightens. A small carved shaman’s mask of bone sits at the bow’s belly, its ruby eye catching every glint of lamp light, as if keeping watch for danger or blessing. When the bow is drawn, the etched runes flare a slow, hungry red, as if the weapon itself inhales the fury of ages and exhaled it through the arrowhead. The texture—polished where it must be held, rough where it carries the weight of legends—tells a story of use, of heat and breath and the moment of release. Whispers among traders say the bow was forged by a Mistwalker shaman who bound the world’s restless rage into a single, faithful instrument. Legends speak of a siege in which rain fell like iron and the shamans channeled that storm’s heart into the wood, schooling fear into silence and turning aim toward a doomed charge. Each arrow fired from the Shaman’s Etched Greatbow of Rage carries a spark of that rite; the shot seems to carry a little of the storm’s breath, a brief crimson glow that lingers on steel and skin. Some insist the bone at its grip belonged to a great elemental’s totem, a reminder that the weapon is not merely metal and wood but a pact written in lightning and memory. To wield it is to carry a thread of that pact into the world—a responsibility as much as a gift. In practical terms, the bow is a storyteller’s tool made for decisive, long-range moments. It rewards patience and restraint: a charged shot can pierce through layered defenses or disrupt a frontline advance, while the next arrow, released with the bow’s rage breathing behind it, lands with a force that seems to follow the echo of a drumbeat from the hills. Rangers who learn to ride the edge of silence and storm find the greatbow an extension of their own will, a way to bend fate without stepping out of the shadows. In the wider world, it becomes part of a larger narrative—one where each skirmish adds a line to the oral histories of shamans, traders, and wanderers who remember the old pacts and the day the bow first roared back. I watched a dealer at the Saddlebag Exchange unfold the bow’s story as deftly as he unwrapped the price. The tag glowed with a price around 2.5 gold, though the market’s moods could swing it higher or lower—3.5 gold during a festival rush, down near two if scarcity eased and coins cooled. The bow’s worth, like the rage it harnesses, rides the current of demand and memory. In the end, it’s not just a weapon. It’s a relic that dares you to listen—to weather the storm, to honor the pact, and to let the arrow speak for you when words fail.