Shaman's Etched Short Bow of Vision

Shaman's Etched Short Bow of Vision glints under lamplight, a slender arc of carved yew whose surface wears a weathered varnish like old lacquer. Its limbs bend with a quiet grace, etched runes crawling along the wood in linear spirals that catch the candle’s flame and throw tiny shadows onto the table. The grip is wrapped in worn, sun-soft leather, pale from decades of contact, and the sinew string sings faintly whenever it’s plucked, a sound not unlike wind teasing through high branches. Inlays of jade-like flakes catch the eye, and a single, visible eye-shaped motif seems to stare back with patient intent, as if the bow is listening for a truth we haven’t learned to say aloud. Lore tells that shamans carved this weapon from a storm-blessed elder, binding its grain to the rhythm of weather and vision; to hold it is to feel the world reduce to a single, keen line of sight, as if the bow is whispering to you the moment when seen becomes real. Its appearance is more than ornament. The Vision in the name isn’t mere flourish but a promise: the bow grants a momentary clarity in the chaos of battle. When a shot is loosed, the air seems to thrum with possibility, and a glimmering thread—visible only to those who carry the bow well—maps the path through smoke, through dust, through the veil that hides enemies behind cover. In practice, it rewards precision and restraint: nock a careful shot, and you’ll feel your aim sharpen as if a lens has been turned toward truth. Some wielders swear the weapon’s aura can detect faint shifts in a foe’s posture, revealing an opening for a decisive strike before the noise of conflict swallows it again. It is a weapon that trades brute force for a certain kind of clarity, concision in the chaos, and that makes it a favorite among rangers who hunt not just with arrows but with perception. In the field, the bow becomes part of a wider story: hunters who learned to read the wind, scouts who listened for the heartbeat of a marching enemy, and wanderers who found themselves guided by a vision that felt more like memory than prophecy. The etched runes are not just decoration; they are a memory of those who used the bow to read the land, to see through illusions, to decide when to stay and when to move. Its uses ripple through a party, turning cautious reconnaissance into decisive action and turning a risky ambush into a clean strike. Market days add another layer to its life. I watched a dealer tug the bow from a leather sack, eyes tracing every scratch and glow, and we spoke in hushed tones about price and provenance. The Saddlebag Exchange, with its steady clatter of coins and traded wares, had it listed between a carved mask and a batch of weathered map scrolls, priced at a figure that made even seasoned traders pause. It wasn’t a steal, nor was it a crown jewel; rather, it was a sign that a story can travel, from campfire to caravan, from legend to ledger, and finally into the hands of someone who understands that vision can be as sharpsighted as any draw. And so the Shaman’s Etched Short Bow of Vision remains: a compact instrument that cuts through distance and doubt, a keeper of sight in a world that often forgets to look twice.