Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow rests in the palm like a weathered feather-splintered relic, its limbs carved from a pale, almost sun-bleached wood that has survived many storms. The grip is wrapped in tanned hide, stitched with rough sinew that creaks with each flex. The bow's sinew strings are taut as a hawk's bowline, and the wood carries a faint, greenish glow where sap has seeped and dried, giving the weapon a living look. On the belly of the bow, runes are etched in a hurried, almost feverish hand—simple hunter's marks that whisper of a gaunt, merciless life, of those who chase and strike before the light reaches full day. The end of the limbs tapers to points that catch light like bone, while the notch bone at the string's cradle is wrapped in a ring of brass, a small, stubborn gleam that hints at a craft from forest villages where traders hammered deals at dawn. In the wild lanes where the Rampagers trained, this short bow was a daily companion—light enough to pair with razor-fast shots, sturdy enough to shrug off rain and mud. The soft wood breathes with every move, flexing with the archer's intent, so that a pulse of wind feels like a friend rather than a foe. Its lore ties to those who once stalked caravans, guarding trails through the marsh and clearing brush with a quiet, knowing patience. It's the kind of weapon that earns respect not by shouting but by staying true when the world goes loud with the clash of axes and the cry of battlemasters. In the stories that survive in campfire memory, the Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow isn't just decoration; it invites a playstyle. Its light draw and smooth release encourage rapid, precise shots, punishing overcommitment with a well-timed pivot. It pairs best with quick-kitting builds that keep one foot in skirmish and the other in stealth, letting a woodsman or ranger weave through cover, delivering swift bolts before retreating behind a stand of trees. The texture of the grip—sand-colored leather, smell of pine resin—brings the outdoors into the tiny arena of combat, where every shot counts and every miss is a reminder of the forest's patience. Market streets hum with bargaining and the clink of coin. I watched a young trader slip this bow into a vellum-wrapped bundle, naming its price with a half-smirk that said he’d seen the world’s harsh weather and did not fear it. At the Saddlebag Exchange, the chatter grew into a whispering chorus; a copper here, a few silver there—enough to carry the scent of pine and the promise of swift, clean kills. The buyer’s guard leaned in, asking for calm performance over flashy show, and the vendor nodded, tucking the bow away as if it belonged to a longer story. For the buyer, the bow becomes a companion for journeys—quiet, faithful, a length of wood and will that keeps its promises when the road grows. Its quiet weight remains, guiding hands on journeys.