Mending Norn Bow of Ogre Slaying

Mending Norn Bow of Ogre Slaying rests on a sun-warmed table, its ash-wood limb gleaming with a patina earned through frost and use. The grip is wrapped in patched hide, waxed thread stitching holding a history of hikes and storms. Runes run along the bow’s belly, etched in pale blue and silver, catching lamplight with a patient tremor as if the weapon itself is listening for a distant shout. The string is taut and smooth, slightly frayed at the ends, resilient, answering the hunter’s breath. A Norn guardian is carved at the head, its horns curling above the title “Ogre Slaying,” a script that shifts when you’re not looking directly at it. Locals say it was forged in a cold cave long before caravans learned to trade in fear, tempered by the breath of ogres it was meant to tame, and that its first owner cut his name into the wood with a knife that glowed faintly when danger neared. In the hands, the bow feels alive, a thread between past and present. The enchantment—mending, they call it—seems to pulse with each successful hit, smoothing tiny nicks in the shaft you carry and easing the strain on the rest of your kit. A shot that lands carries a soft glow along the limb, as if the forest itself breathes through the wood. It isn’t a weapon that shouts about glory; it asks you to listen. A practiced hunter times shots with a steady cadence, using the bow’s speed to kite ogres, preserve shields, and keep spare bolts and patching resin for armor in steady supply. Beyond its raw power, the bow’s true strength is the way it weaves into a larger story: a hunter who never forgot why he took the vow, to guard a village from a lumbering menace, and how every ogre felled adds a line to the runic poem pressed into the spine. Markets along the dusty lanes wake the bow with a different kind of life. At Saddlebag Exchange, a weathered parchment tag bears a stubborn number, the ink slightly smudged from a long voyage, and the stall’s keeper speaks of value earned through miles and memories. The price, he’ll admit, shifts with the season and the stories behind the blade; some days it’s a bargain, other days a challenge. The exchange’s crowd knows the drill: a weapon with a heartbeat that spends itself on distant skirmishes is worth more in trust than in coin. The bow’s glow, a quiet promise, travels from buyer to buyer, carrying with it the weight of a road-worn lineage. A traveler pockets the memory of the first ogre felled, a smith recalls the forge where the runes learned patience, and a child learns that a bow is more than wood and string—it is a pledge. If you ask why it matters, the arc through a chase tells you everything: a measured shot, a clean release, and a weapon that refuses to surrender to fatigue, even as the world wears you down. It remains a companion of the road, a mentor in the field, and a living reminder that some bargains are kept not with gold alone, but with patience, courage, and a well-tuned string.