Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water rests in the palm, its grain curling like a river's breath under a pale lamp. The limbs are pale, smoothly curved as driftwood, and the grip is wrapped in weathered leather that smells faintly of rain. The belly bears wave-kissed inlays that glow a cool aquamarine in lamplight, and the string hums with a quiet, watery tension. It feels light and responsive, yet sturdy enough to trust in a closing skirmish. Lore credits river-dwellers with carving it, and the Rampager name belongs to a hunter who carried flood alongside him, through flooded towns and back to dry land. In the world the bow speaks through movement: quick, decisive shots that suit the marsh’s churn and reed-choked paths. Its water-marked aura seems to quiet the air, guiding the eye to a distant splash-length heartbeat before the arrow leaves the string. The wood’s softness cushions recoil, encouraging a hunter to press forward rather than cling to cover, and the aquamarine inlay catches sun and shadow alike, turning a moment of aim into a small ritual. It is a weapon with a story—more than steel and string, more than accuracy—it is a kept memory of the river’s patience and the hunter who learned to move with it. In combat it carries a gentle bite for the patient, reading the water as surely as tracks. In quiet moments it seems to remember every camp along the floodplain, every night the river slept above ground. Last evening I tracked the Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water to Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling outpost where caravans tie off and trades drift in the air like cloth. A dealer laid it out, the wood catching the last light and turning it to turquoise. The price hovered around 4 silver and 83 copper, a sum that felt earned for something with a storied spine. We spoke in the soft murmur of vendors, the kind of talk where coins change hands and a rumor can travel farther than a cart. The seller spoke of provenance—flooded camps, river-route runners—and I felt the weight of the river settle on my shoulder as I paid. Now it travels with me along the banks, where dawn meets mud and the marsh glints with dew. With Rampager’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Water in hand, I listen for the hush of a reed bed and the river’s memory. The bow is not merely a tool but a passport into a lineage—one that teaches that power tempered by water can be precise, patient, and fast all at once. It reminds me to move with the current, to let the world decide the pace, and to leave only ripples and stories in my wake. And when the river breathes loud, I know the bow will answer. Perhaps it is fate that the wood never forgets a stream I’ve walked. In that memory, the market, the river, and the bow fuse into a single pace that carries me forward.