Shaman's Norn Bow of Air

Shaman's Norn Bow of Air rests on the table like a spent storm, its limbs carved from pale ash and etched with runes that glow faintly in cold light. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smooth from years of use, and a plume of feathered quillwork spirals from the nut where the string meets wood. The bowstring hums with a touch of wind you can feel in your fingertips, and along the length, sigils of Air glitter in silver inlay, catching torches and moonlight alike. The tips end in tiny bronze arrowheads, and a clear crystal sits in a cradle near the grip, pulsing with a cool, almost breathy light. It seems both ancient and ready, a weathered thing that has learned to wait for the right gust. Old Norn tales speak of shamans who bound the wind to their bows, turning breath into bolt. This bow is said to be the instrument of a storm-watcher who listened to the breath of mountains and sent it out as arrows. To hold it is to feel the world tilt toward the weather, as if you stood at the edge of a cliff where gusts whip around you and the air itself seems to lean closer to listen. In the field, the bow rewards patience and precision. Its airborn shots cut clean through wind and light cover, carrying with them a sense of speed rather than brute force. Land a crit and the sigil of Air flares, extending range and quickening the return cycle, as though the breeze itself is reloading your arrows. In the right hands, it becomes more than hardware: a storyteller’s tool, an heirloom that can turn a skirmish into a quiet ritual, a hunter’s dance with gravity and gusts. Draw with the rhythm of the wind, wait for the moment when the air shifts, and release to release a shot that seems to ride a whisper of current. Prices drift like autumn leaves through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where traders barter with salt, stories, and the occasional rune-etched trinket. The Shaman’s Norn Bow of Air is a name that travels on gossip as much as on gold, priced for those who respect the wind’s counsel and the patience it demands. I watched a buyer press a pouch of ruby dust against a few gleaming seals, the vendor weighing risk and rarity with the same careful eye. In the end, the bow found a new home with someone who spoke softly of storms and of teaching their companion to listen before firing, not merely to aim. Sometimes, at night, I imagine the bow speaking in a tongue of wind, reminding its bearer to shoot with purpose and patience. The smell of oiled leather and pine still lingers in that marketplace of legends. For those who believe a weapon is a story you carry, the Shaman’s Norn Bow of Air remains a faithful narrator, always ready to lift a shot on the breath of a breeze. Always onward.