Mighty Soft Wood Short Bow

Mighty Soft Wood Short Bow rests on a weathered oak counter, its limbs pale and lacquered with a subtle satin sheen that catches the lamp-light in thin arcs. The wood—soft to the touch, surprisingly springy under the fingers—breathes with the grain, each ring a memory of a sheltered grove and a frost-bitten dawn. The grip is wrapped in brown leather, worn smooth by years of use, with a tiny notch carved into the riser where a hunter once marked a successful draw. Along the belly, runes are burned in dialogue with the wood’s natural lines—small promises of luck and quick pace. The string is taut, a whisper between the notches, and when you pull, the bow exerts a quiet, confident resistance—as if it were listening for the heartbeat of a target rather than the wind. There is lore stitched into its form, not shouted but felt. Soft wood is not common, rooted in the hush between the pines where moss glitters green in shadow and the air smells of pine resin and rain. A short bow—compact, balanced—fits a hunter who moves with a dancer’s feet, slipping through thickets and lanes with barely a sound. The word Mighty on the stave is not just a label but a claim; it hints at a lineage of marksmen who tempered their craft with patience and risk, who believed that a well-timed shot could tilt a village’s fate. In the memory-threads of elders, such bows were said to be carved by someone who read wind in the grain and taught the string to kiss the air with intent. On the field, the Mighty Soft Wood Short Bow is a companion for the agile, a tool for rapid engagement and quick retreat. Its weight favors speed, its balance favors precision, and its short reach makes it ideal for skirmishes in brush or along narrow cliff paths. The “Mighty” prefix shoulders a boost to power, letting a hunter drive a bolt through leather and hide with a clean cut, while the soft wood’s resilience keeps it from snapping when a shot is steadied against a shifting flank of wind. It’s the kind of weapon that asks for patience and practice—a quiet partner for those weaving between enemies, reading the moment when an opponent exhales. Prices drift in the market like a stray current, and here in the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange the bow comes with a story tucked into its crest. A clerk measures the weight of the wood against the glint of the core, nodding toward a price that sits at a few silver coins—enough to tempt a traveler who favors mobility over bulk. The buyer may swap old tales for coins or barter for a set of leather patches to mend a pack; either way, the bow travels onward, traded from hand to hand as if it were a breath of wind itself. When you lift it again, you hear distant trails calling, a promise that the next stretch of road will know the whisper of a quick, true shot.