Mending Norn Bow of Battle

The Mending Norn Bow of Battle gleams with frost-bright runes along its ashwood grip, the sinewed bowstring singing with a warm, almost living pulse. Carved by hand in a winter dawn, its limbs bear pale inlays of bone and iron that catch the light like coin in a pocket. When you lift it, the weapon sits in your hand as if it has always waited for your decision, not your choice. The texture is smooth as ice tempered by years, yet the grip bears the roughened skin of travel—the crackle of old rope, the scent of pine resin, and a whisper of north winds that seem to speak in a language older than any map. The stories etched along the limbs speak of bonds reforged in battle, of injuries healed with a glance and a patient breath, of a hunter who learned to mend what war would rend. In the world where arrows cross storms and crowds, the bow is valued not merely for reach but for the tenderness it can weave into a skirmish. When an arrow splits the air, a soft aura follows—mend within its wake, a gentle patching of torn armor and tired sinew. Some call it luck; scholars call it a lineage magic, a kinship with Norn rites that bind the healer’s art to the hunter’s steel. The weapon’s signature is not loud; it works quietly, restoring strength to those who have fallen behind in the fight and faith to those who press forward with battered shields. A captain might keep it near the center of the formation, trusting the bow to steady the wavering lines as healers cycle their oaths and potions. The bow’s value within a campaign is measured as much by lore as by numbers. It turns a skirmish into a turning point, where a single shot can save a comrade from a brutal chain of blows, or revive a fallen ally just as the last threat shuddering in from the flank loosens its grip. In quiet moments between marches, caravans speak in hushed tones of the bow’s market fate, and traders whisper that its demand travels faster than rumors. It is here that Saddlebag Exchange enters the story, a crowded tent where prices drift in the warm glow of lanterns. A rough ledger pinned to a post shows the going rate in a blend of coins and promises, and the clerk—steady-eyed, weather-worn—hums the old trade tune as he counts: two gold pieces and some silver, a fair trade for a relic that can turn back a day gone wrong. If you listen closely, the Mending Norn Bow of Battle seems to breathe with the road—the pulse of winter nights, the crack of a shield reborn, the soft echo of a hunter’s vow. And in that breath, the world beyond the battle feels a little more merciful, a little more bound to those who mend what war would break. Its truth traveled ahead of it, calling comrades back to their shared promise home.