Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow

The Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow sits amber-lit on a rough oak worktable, its limbs slender yet stubbornly resilient. The wood glows with a pale honey grain that seems to breathe as you tilt it toward the lamplight; the surface is smooth as a well-worn flute, but cooler to the touch where the lacquer catches the eye. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, softened by a hundred hands, and the string—twisted from goat-sinew—snaps taut with a satisfying sigh. Along the belly, runes are etched in fine stroke; they glow faintly when the sun catches them, like ember-dots scattered across a field. The bow is a whisper of a weapon, a swift friend for closer work, its weight distributed so it feels almost effortless to raise and nudge back into position after every shot. Its name is inked in a neat tag on the underside: Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow, as if the woods themselves gave it permission to move fast and strike hard. In the stories told around markets and taverns, this bow is said to hold a memory of a berserker who carved comfort from chaos—who trusted a soft, flexible cedar or ash to bend rather than snap when the wind of battle blew hot and loud. When drawn, the bow seems to hum with a quiet energy, as though the wood remembers the roar of a charge and chooses to spring forward rather than resist. Hunters who wield it speak of it as a partner rather than a tool, one that keeps pace with a hunter's breath, guiding shots to the narrow seam of danger and offering a steady hand when the world goes loud. In practice, the short bow favors speed over brute reach, letting a shooter slip between positions, peppering a target with rapid, precise arrows that bite just enough to force a retreat or a reckoning. The weapon also travels beyond the person who holds it, threading through the town’s memory as a coveted piece in barter and rumor. I watched a trapper trade hers at Saddlebag Exchange, where a ledger once whispered of ratios and returns. The bow changed hands for a modest sum—not a king’s ransom, but enough to loosen the coins in a purse and buy another morning’s bread for the smith’s apprentice. Traders there spoke in careful tones, noting how its value wavered with the tide of hunts, with the season’s stories, with the hunter who needed haste more than weight. It’s not just metal and wood; it’s a line through a world of peril and promise, a confirmation that a single well-made bow can alter a chase, tilt a standoff, and leave a hunter with a new tale to tell. When the day closes and dusk knocks softly on the window, the Berserker’s Soft Wood Short Bow rests across the shoulder like a memory that’s learned to move. Somewhere, in the echo of footsteps up a market stall or the whisper of a distant quarry, its legend keeps moving forward, an arrow at a time.