Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow rests on a carved oak pew, its pale limbs catching candlelight with a satin glow, the grain running like whispered rivers along its length. The grip is wrapped in faded linen that has softened to the touch, and the ends are tucked with tiny brass fittings that gleam when you tilt the bow toward the light. The string, a hair-thin whisper of strength, sits taut and ready, as if the wood itself has kept its vow to be swift and steady. The whole artifact smells faintly of resin and last season’s rain, a scent that hints at patient hands and careful prayers. If you lean in close, you can make out a delicate carving along the belly—a cleric’s staff entwined with a sprig of leaves—an emblem of mercy and focus, a reminder that this weapon was made to bring quiet certainty to the long, uncertain road. The soft wood speaks of a grove blessed by rain and reverence, a tree whose limbs were shaped by the hands of artisans who believed in balance between will and wind. lore-tellers say the bow’s maker was a bowyer who listened for the forest’s counsel, choosing wood that would bend with compassion rather than force. Some elders claim the string was spun from threads blessed by a healer, meant not to wound so much as to guide, to nudge fate toward mercy. In the temples and on the frontiers alike, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow earned a reputation not merely as a tool of accuracy, but as a symbol—an instrument that carries the weight of quiet verdicts spoken in the heat of battle and the calm of retreat. In practice, the bow feels light in the hand, a quick, responsive partner for mid-range skirmishes and tense pulse-points where precision matters more than brute power. It rewards patient aim and steady nerves: release a measured shaft and you feel the wood bend just enough to steady the mind as much as the shot, letting a healer or guardian weave a safer path through chaos. For those who favor a disciplined, protecting style, it becomes a conduit for focused energy—shots that interrupt, puncture, or simply keep pressure on a retreating foe while an ally seals a gate or shields a comrade. The arrow’s arrival is not loud but inevitable, like a mentor’s counsel delivered at just the right moment; the bow’s softness becomes a virtue in the hands of someone who knows when to hold and when to let go. Market day brings the bow into the bustle of traders and caravans, where a tented relic shop called Saddlebag Exchange spreads its wares along a dusty lane. Here, the cleric’s short bow is weighed not only in coin but in stories. The broker slaps his ledger and offers a fair trade: a little over two gold, with a modest note on condition and a promise of a care kit to keep the string singing true in frost or rain. The price feels right because the bow carries more than value; it carries a lineage—quiet prayers whispered through wood, a promise kept in the hand, a link in the chain of those who stand between mercy and mayhem. When it changes hands, it does so as part of a larger tale—the one where a healer, a hunter, and a traveler each depend on a trusted companion to glimpse the next breath of safety in a world where shadows move and light must be made to hold.