Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Chilling

Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Chilling rests in the palm of a weathered hunter's glove, its limbs curved like a crescent moon carved from pale, honey-toned soft wood. The grain runs in lazy rivers beneath a lacquered sheen, smooth to the touch, as if the bow themselves were carved from the quiet of dawn. The grip is wrapped in rough, sun-warmed leather, etched with tiny creases that tell of miles trudged through frost and rain. Along the belly, runes flicker in a frost-blue glow, and the ends of the limbs bear small ferrules of pale metal that catch candlelight with a quiet hum. The string is a taut whisper, braided from sinew and linen, and when the weapon rests in a quiet corner it seems almost asleep, until someone breathes life back into it with a measured draw. Drawn, it becomes more than a weapon; it feels like a memory pressed into a tree-knot, a pact sealed with winter. The wood gives a gentle tremor under the fingers, and a breath of cold climbs the forearm as if the bow itself carries a sliver of frost from some distant glacier. When an arrow is nocked, the air around the bow tightens, and tiny motes of ice seem to scrawl along the string as if the weapon were writing a winter oath in the air. The shot travels with a clean, crisp impact, and the chill lingers on the target’s skin, a momentary shiver that might slow the attacker just enough to let a pursuer close or a comrade slip past the line of sight. It is a bow that favors precision and pace—quick hands, quicker feet, and a mind sharpened by the bite of cold air. In the larger tapestry of the world, this short bow has a reputation for the patience of its maker and the cold patience of its wielder. It is the kind of weapon that stories cling to—how a hunter learned to listen to the wind in the pines, how a caravan guard kept watch on a night road where the frost crept along the rails and the moon barely peeked over the ridge. The “Chilling” in its name is not merely a label but a memory of nights spent tracking along ice-thin streams, where a single careful shot could turn a stubborn pursuit into a retreat, and where the hunter’s breath fogged with every heartbeat. Those who carry it speak of a quiet kinship with winter—how the bow’s quiet weight steadies a hand, how the frost-kissed edge of the rune hints at restraint as much as force. Markets pulse with the lure of such artifacts, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a tell-tale hive in the evenings, lamps casting pale halos over rows of waiting wares. There, the bow finds its price—often a balance of gold and trader’s trade—soaked in the rhythm of haggles and the soft clink of coin. A pristine example might command a handful of gold, while a well-traveled version, carrying scars of frostbite and field use, settles into a more modest sum, negotiable against another piece of gear or a tale told under a canvas awning. It’s a bid for memory as much as function, a chance to own a slice of winter that once felt like a companion on the road. And so the bow changes hands, continuing its long journey through hands, markets, and winters, quietly writing the next line of its story.