Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow

The Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow catches the morning light as it rests on a sun-warmed market bench, its pale grain gleaming with a honeyed sheen. The wood feels almost breathing in the fingers—smooth to the touch, with fine stripes of cream and auburn arcing along the limbs like river channels after rain. The bow strings are taut and clean, a single whisper of tension that promises speed more than brute force. Along the grip, a slender filigree of runes is pressed into the soft wood, not harsh carvings but gentle swirls that catch the eye and invite a second look. The limbs curve with a dancer’s grace, compact enough for rapid draws yet strong enough to hold its line under the strain of a steady, practiced shot. A small emblem—a sun curled around a quill—is etched near the riser, hinting at a vow kept by those who tempered the weapon in temple halls and quiet, sacred groves. Lore threads braid through the wood as if the bow itself hums with memory. This is not merely a weapon but a piece of consecrated craft—soft wood harvested from a grove tended by clerics who swore to protect the sanctuaries where light sits steady and patient. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow was said to be gifted to guardians who walked between the world of patient prayer and the world outside those doors, where danger grows in the shade. Its maker claimed that the grain carried the memory of sacred quiet—the way a bow remembers a whispered oath and returns it to the hunter’s hand with calm assurance. In the right hands, the bow becomes more than wood and string; it becomes a line of duty, a forest path, a promise spoken in the language of flight. In gameplay, that promise translates into something practical and propulsive. It’s a short bow, naturally suited to mid-range skirmishes and fast-thinking volley work. The draw is swift, the arrows travel with a crisp efficiency, and the weapon’s balance rewards precise, rapid shots rather than long, ponderous locks of fire. In the hands of a Ranger or a versatile skirmisher, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow makes it easier to keep pressure on an enemy while maintaining mobility, weaving in quick shots between dodges, and layering on support or cleansing effects when the moment asks for it. The lore-laden resonance of the bow also nudges players toward a narrative angle: where this weapon is found, a role must be played—protector, guide, or witness to a village’s quiet, daily courage. Market talk becomes part of the story as you shoulder the weight of the bow and step into the bustling lanes. At the edge of the square, a stall sways with the cadence of coins and stories, and the sign reads Saddlebag Exchange—a name that promises traded memories as surely as traded goods. Here, prices dance with haggling patience, and a cleric’s oath might carry a touch more weight than a raw sum of silver. A buyer might seal the deal with a glimmer in the eye and a whispered promise to care for the weapon as if it cared for the world. Trade, after all, is a kind of faith, and this bow, pressed into the palm of a new steward, continues its work: to protect, to honor, to be a quiet arrow aimed at the heart of fear.