Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Peril

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Peril rested on a weathered peg, its limbs curved like a pale reed pressed into service by a patient woodsman. The wood, soft to the touch yet unyielding under pressure, bears a warm honey-brown grain that seems to inhale light. Along the grip runs a shallow, almost petal-thin groove, etched with a serpentine pattern that catches the corner of a lamp and seems to shimmer faintly in the dusk. The bowstring is a taut line of worn sinew, slick with resin where it meets the horn nocks. When you lift it, the weight sits in the forearm rather than the shoulder, a sign that speed is the promise it keeps. Its name, Rampager's, feels earned rather than conferred—a bow that has seen quick, reckless force and lived to tell the tale. The Soft Wood, a trait whispered by caravans, is said to bend just enough to spare the user from misfires when both rain and haste press in. Clasped in its curves is a lore thread: this is the kind of weapon a hunter would trust when river fogs swallow the banks of the Maguuma and peril clings to every branch. The wood's softness gives a forgiving snap, forgiving mis-tows from an anxious hand, while the encircling runes promise steadiness in the moment of release. Elders remember a rampager who carried one through a night of ambush and barter, a tale told by campfires where traders traded not only goods but warnings. Peril, the name suggests, is not merely danger but a test—of aim, of nerve, of whether a hunter will let fear choose the next shot or let the chain of discipline carry it through. In play, the bow slips from memory into purpose. It rewards quick, decisive shots and punishes hesitation with a sting of reduced clarity. For a ranger or herald of the undergrowth, its light draw and short, precise range make it ideal in close skirmishes or when patrols push along a winding trail where the click of a trigger must be swift as a whisper. The Soft Wood’s generous forgiveness gives confidence to those who practice the art of a clean break—one good shot before a retreat or a pivot that keeps legs free for the next engagement. It’s a tool for a small war: warding off a pack, thinning a patrol, letting a hunter slip away beneath the rain-streaked canopy. Market legends spill into the night as traders move from stall to stall: a leatherian saddlebag and a ledger, wheels turning, quotes slipping between fingers. A quiet note from Saddlebag Exchange records a fair price for a bow like this, a balance struck between expedient savagery and patient procurement. Those who carry it into the brush know the cost is more than coin; it’s the weight of a promise: when peril rises, your aim remains true, and the wood holds fast to the hand that calls it to life. In the end, the bow is memory made useful.