Mending Norn Short Bow of Battle

Mending Norn Short Bow of Battle gleams with frost-lit grain, its ash limbs curved like a winter branch and the grip wrapped in rain-dark leather that smells of pine and old rain. Snowflake sigils carve its belly, catching any passing light and sending back a pale, frost-blue glow, as if the wood remembers every cold breath it has ever faced. The string lies taut and patient, humming softly when drawn, and a brass rune at the nocking point seems to pulse with a quiet, living heartbeat as you steady your aim. It’s a weapon that feels as though it were grown from the forest’s memory rather than forged from iron, smooth to the touch, almost velvety, and somehow warmer than you'd expect from something meant for cold steel and killing wind. Lore threads through its grain like a hidden seam. The bow is said to have been crafted by a Norn hunter who believed healing could emerge from the act of hunting itself—that the arrow’s flight could stitch what war rends apart. The Mending enchantment is whispered to ride the shaft, a subtle green thread that glows in the wake of a hit and lingers in the air long enough to remind the surrounding fighters that courage deserves care. In the right hands, that thread wends its way through a skirmish, not erasing danger but softening its bite, restoring breath to the breathless and steadiness to the steady-handed. The weapon becomes less a tool of conquest and more a message—one that tells a story of endurance, loyalty, and the stubborn belief that a single, well-placed arrow can help a friend rise again. In the field, its value is not measured by raw numbers alone but by how it bends the arc of a battle. A ranger who knows this bow can thread shots through narrow gaps, placing the green glow where it will do the most good: on a wounded ally just as the opposing charge ebbs, or along the line of archers keeping a siege team intact as arrows whisper past the banners. The weapon rewards patience and precision, encouraging a kind of surgical, disciplined artistry in an otherwise brutal dance. And when a party pushes through a night’s fatigue, the Mending bow’s quiet promise becomes a lullaby of resilience—not a cure-all, but a steadying force that turns panicked improvisation into practiced response. Prices drift through the markets like autumn leaves, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where many such tales begin to settle into a price tag. A seasoned trader will tell you that the bow’s worth rests as much in memory as in metal; in practice, it sits near a gold coin plus a handful of silver, depending on bargaining, condition, and the stories you carry with you. The Exchange folk trade in a language of glances and scars, and those who hold the bow often speak in the same cadence—softly, with respect for what has been stitched back together in the months and miles since it left the forge. To hold the Mending Norn Short Bow of Battle is to feel the world tilt toward mercy without surrendering resolve. It is a reminder that even in a harsh, wind-swept land, a weapon can be more than a weapon—that it can be a bridge, mending breaks in the line, and in turn, in the people who fight beside you.