Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Nullification rests on the workbench like a pale instinct waiting to be released. The limbs are carved from a soft, creamy wood, the grain curling in delicate rings that catch the lamplight as if they hold a memory of rain and fire. The surface is smooth to the touch, lacquered with a patient gloss that makes each line and notch feel almost ceremonial. The riser is wrapped in strips of weathered leather, stitched with honest, salt-woured thread, and the bowstring—hair-thin and taut—hums softly with a promise of precision. Carved along the grip are runes—wolf-teeth, storm-spirits, and a tight line of chevrons—signatures of a Berserker’s lineage, a pact between hunter and wood. The word "Nullification" is not just a label; when you cradle the bow, a cold whisper trails along your forearm, as if the wood itself remembers what it is asked to erase and choose not to forget. The lore that clings to it speaks of a woodwright who wandered beside berserkers, tempering the soft wood with the rage of storms and the patience of hunters. In those days, shields and wards buckled under the weight of a single, clean aim, as if the bow could snip the threads by which magic clings to a target. Elders tell of arrows that seemed to vanish into a shimmer of runes, reappearing only when a pulse of power cracked the air—enough to loosen a foe’s resolve and lay bare the next moment’s opportunity. Some say the bow holds the memory of every clash it witnessed, storing snappy feints and decisive moments in the grain, ready to discharge them when the moment of surrender finally arrives. In combat the Berserker’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Nullification asks for discipline. It favors swift, clean shots rather than brute force, rewarding timing and a hunter’s sense for the ebb and flow of a skirmish. When the shot lands, the Nullification enchantment sends a quiet ripple through the fight—an edge that slips into a foe’s defenses, erasing a boon or dulling a shield for a heartbeat or two. It is not the hammer of a siege but the surgeon’s scalpel: a moment of clarity that breaks a line, punctures a tentative defense, and lends the next strike a higher likelihood of landing true. For a hunter threading danger by a whisper, it becomes a partner in strategy, turning ambush into opportunity and opportunity into a decision that can tilt a battle’s course. I learned of its current journey not from a guild hall but from a stall along the market lanes—the Saddlebag Exchange—where traders hawk rare finds as though their stories were as portable as coins. The price wobbles with season and supply, a shimmer of gold and silver that can swing with a buyer’s desire and a seller’s memory of a last, closing trade. One afternoon, a weathered dealer offered a ghost of a number, another whispered a more generous sum, and a curious hunter listened, weighing the wood’s quiet patience against the cost of courage. In that exchange, the bow found a new chapter, its myth ready to be drawn anew as the world keeps turning and the hunt continues.