Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Stamina

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Stamina gleams with a patient, sun-warmed polish. The wood is pale and fine-grained, a soft sapwood that still carries the scent of woodland trails. Its limbs curve with a quiet grace, not lean like a hunter's spear, but rounded, almost forgiving to the touch. Runic glyphs are burnt into the grip, shallow and worn from years of handling. The bowstring is a whisper of sinew, taut and stubborn, with tiny fuzz of animal fiber catching the light as you draw. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stained a warm honey color, and dented by countless hunts. When you lean close, the wood’s grain looks like a map: river-dark lines that hint at a caravan’s route, a memory of forests where someone learned to survive with patience. The designation Rampager's signals its pedigree—this is gear meant for the long miles and the heat of pursuit. It is not so much a trophy as a companion, a tool that remembers the lay of a chase: the way a target’s shadow slides across moss, the moment you steady your breath and release. The "of Stamina" tag isn’t merely ornamental. It promises endurance, a subtle trick where the bow helps you recover a touch of stamina with each precise draw, a gift a hunter earns by staying true to aim and timing. In the field, the bow’s balance feels almost deliberate, as if the timber’s grain itself paused to listen for a stride in the underbrush. When you nock a quarrel there’s a soft, creaking sigh from the yew, and the shot arcs with a steady ascent, not a reckless snap. The soft wood tolerates a rough hand, forgiving if your grip tightens in a moment of fear, and it returns to pose with a quiet, unwavering steadiness. Lore whispers tie this bow to the caravans that traverse the outer rims of civilization. Centuries ago, scouts carried such weapons between safe-houses, trading stories as much as arrows. A Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Stamina would pass from hunter to hunter, always a little better for the miles, a little wiser for the wear. It’s not a legendary relic, but a witness: a tool that records the cadence of survival. In today’s markets you’ll hear it traded in hushed tones, like a secret currency of patience. The Saddlebag Exchange—the little bazaar tucked behind a wagon’s wheel—curries interest for these pieces, because players value not just the damage numbers but the narrative carried by a bowed stick and a well-placed shot. A price tag tugs at curiosity: a stack of silver, maybe a few copper worse for wear, depending on the seller’s mood and the bow’s weathered charm. Still, its worth for a huntsman is measured in more than coins: in the quiet that follows a clean strike, the memory of a trail, and the stamina it helps sustain when the road grows long. It lingers in the memory of markets and camps, waiting for the next chase.