Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow

Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow rests on a table in the market shade, its limbs curved like a sigh released through a drawn string. The soft wood, pale and breathing, wears a satin finish that catches light in subtle ripples. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from countless hands, and a shallow dent marks the wood where a hunter pressed for balance. Along the belly run runes—three sigils and a lone thorn—carved by a berserker scout who led a patrol through pine-dark nights. The bow carries a scent of pine resin and wind, as if it keeps the memory of autumns and long trips along caravan trails. The draw is brisk yet forgiving, the wood keeping time with a hunter’s breath. In the field it is a weapon of speed over distance: designed for quick hands and fast shots, it thrives in brush, alley, or the edge of a campfire glow where a longer bow would be clumsy. In skilled hands it can spit a volley—three or four shafts in rapid succession—before an opponent regroups. The short bow’s reach is shorter, but its cadence is sharper, letting a ranger or thief weave between cover and light. When paired with Berserker gear—ferocity and precision—it feels as if the bow grows teeth. Arrows find narrow gaps in armor and unarmored sides alike, and each hit carries a spark of focus, as if the user is summoning a lifetime of practice in a single breath. Lore helps this bow breathe in the world. It is said to have been carved for a young berserker who never learned to sheath rage, but learned to aim instead, channeling frenzy into a clean release. Some claim the weapon was tempered by a smith who walked the edge between calm and storm; others insist it is simply wood and superstition. Regardless, the item has traveled through markets and outposts, a talisman for scouts and caravan guards who map the roads between towns, defending a route with a steady hand and a quick thumb on the trigger. Speaking of markets, Saddlebag Exchange keeps a fair ledger of such pieces, the kind of stall where merchants trade stories for coin. I watched a clerk lay out the price in neat copper: a sane middle ground for a bow of this quality, not a crown of gold, not a rusted trinket. The exchange sells hope as much as hardware, and the bargaining ritual—soft talk, a smile, a second glance at your belt—becomes part of the bow’s next journey. A traveler might trade a tale for sinewy wood, a hunter for a map inked with a treacherous river, and so the Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow continues onward. Walk a few steps into the wild with this bow over your shoulder, and you feel the larger story, every arrow a line in a poem about risk met with discipline, and a world that keeps turning even when a lone hunter finds a moment of perfect silence in quiet awe.