Rampager's Soft Wood Staff of Accuracy is a pale, sun-warmed stave carved from soft wood, its grain curling like a map of ancient routes. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather, worn smooth by hands that once trained in whispering forests, and the head is set with a braided tuft of horsehair that catches light as if it remembers every arrow its owner avoided. Amber resin glints along the shaft, and faint runes run in a circle near the top, telling a tale of rangers who learned to listen to wind and wood. The wood carries a scent of pine and rain, a scent that makes travelers relax even as danger closes in. Locals say it was forged during the old rampages when woodcraft and a touch of magic were pressed into service to bring down a stubborn quarry. To hold it is to feel a promise—that every step toward a target will be measured, every spell cast with a measured breath. In battle, the staff is a bridge between discipline and immediacy: it crackles with a quiet energy that nudges the hands to land nearer the mark, its name a daily reminder that accuracy is a craft as much as a stat. Players who favor precision and patience find it a natural companion. When you nudge a wind-blasted assault from a cliff face, the staff's runes glow faintly, guiding a bolt and blessing the next strike. It channels the world’s rhythms into a cleaner, steadier shot, turning each encounter into a test of aim, timing, and will. It is not merely a weapon but a talisman that invites a hunter to slow down just long enough to find the right fissure in a boss’s guard. Markets do not forget such wares, and neither do the listeners who pass through Saddlebag Exchange. There, under canvas and the spit of a setting sun, a dozen traders barter with the same reverence you hear in the shopkeeper’s voice when he says ‘try it first.’ I watched a young scout trade a brittle map for a glimpse at the staff, as if the wood might reveal a path hidden to ordinary sight. The price, they say, floats with the season and the camp’s need, shifting like a tide, but the balance is fair enough that a determined eye can walk away with a bargain that feels earned. Some stacks of gold pass hand to hand; others fold into the exchange of tales—of scouts who woke to the staff’s whisper, or of a rampager who learned to trust a clean, true strike more than a loud claim. By dusk, the Soft Wood Staff of Accuracy has left a trace of pine needles on the counter and a new story in the saddlebag of a wandering hunter. It is a relic that travels with its owner, turning not just the fortune of a single skirmish but the fate of many journeys, one carefully aimed breath at a time. It lingers in memory long after dawn.