Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Rage

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Rage lay on the old oak table, its limbs pale as dawn ash and arched with a quiet, almost vulnerable grace. The wood wears a fine, even grain, like a tree keeping its secrets; a light varnish catches the light and pulls it into soft reflections that shimmer along the belly as if a small flame just beneath the surface might flare awake. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, mottled brown and rubbed smooth by hands that learned to hunt in winds and rain. A whisper of resin scent clings to the air, and the bow’s strings hum faintly when it’s held—the sound of a kept promise ready to be kept again. Along the belly run sigils, tiny and precise, that glow a faint copper when anger threads through the air, a reminder that this weapon is more than wood and string: it is memory made movable. In hands, the Soft Wood Short Bow is deceptively light, almost feather-like, yet it snaps back with the certainty of a truth you cannot argue with. Draw it, and the arrow seems to find its own heart, a blade of wind that cuts through a shield of doubt. Its reach is brisk, its release quick, and there’s a rhythm to firing that feels like a conversation with the terrain itself—one where speed matters as much as aim. The bow’s aura—“of Rage”—seems to lend a feral precision: shots land with a pulse that matches the heartbeat of a hunter on the fringe of a shadowed forest. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a scout feel the wind as an ally and a frontline archer feel the room melt away until only the target remains in the glow of a well-timed strike. Lore threads through its fiber as surely as the resin settles into the grain. The Rampager’s craft grew out of a bruised coast town where weathered hands learned to turn storms into work. Those who bore the name Rampager carried rage like a blade hidden in a sleeve—not to burn but to burnish, to shape a path through chaos. The Soft Wood Short Bow of Rage embodies that paradox: a calm, patient tool that awakens with the right spark, becoming a conduit for momentum rather than mere force. It’s whispered that the sigils on the belly were etched by a hunter who faced a siege with nothing but a bow and a stubborn will, turning fear into focus and rage into a shield that pierced silence itself. Market notes drift through a different kind of weather—the stalls and whispered negotiations at Saddlebag Exchange. Here, the bow’s value isn’t only measured in the sharpness of its edge but in the stories it carries. A hush falls as a trader unfurls a parchment, the price written in careful loops that speak of demand and scarcity. A pristine specimen catches eyes and coins alike, while a worn example still finds a way into a traveler’s pack, as if the weapon’s history is a form of currency in its own right. The exchange roars softly with the rhythm of trade, and somewhere between the clatter of pots and the patter of hooves, the Rampager’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Rage finds a new listener, a new hunt, a new chapter. Anyone who lifts it feels the old world answer with a clear, almost ceremonial breath: this is a tool for moving through danger, a companion in the march, and a small, bright roar in the quiet between battles.