Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow

The Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow rests on a sun-bleached rack, its limbs pale as dried bones and the grain curling in lazy, nervous waves that catch the lamplight like a whispered heartbeat. The bowstring is taut as a drawn dream, the wood's surface smooth as river glass, with a satin sheen that speaks of careful polishing and long practice. The grip is wrapped in tired leather, darker at the edges where fingers have learned to ride it with instinct, and a narrow brass ferrule glints where the riser meets the limb. A tiny sigil, a wolf's head entwined with a thorned vine, is inlaid near the grip, a legacy mark from a hunter-priest who swore the wood would bend to courage as easily as it bends to wind. It feels light enough to dance from palm to palm, yet sturdy enough to bite into a target with a clean, crackling sound as the bolt meets flesh or air. The bowstring hums with a potential that rewards a patient hand: a couple of well-placed shots can thread through a skirmish and leave the field to the quicker, wiser hunter. In the right hands, this short bow is a storyteller—short enough for tight woodland corridors, long enough to thicken a hunter's defense by keeping opponents at a respectful distance while arrows find their marks. Its Berserker's designation hints at purpose-built vigor: a weapon meant for aggressive, decisive exchanges, where power meets precision and wind is tamed by instinct. Legends say the bow was carved by a woodwright who traveled with a clan of berserkers, a pact-bound craftsman who tempered rage with restraint, shaping the soft wood from a grove saved by a dragon’s retreat and blessing it with runes that glow faintly at dawn. In day-to-day practice, it earns its keep with quick follow-ups, fast reloads, and a surprising steadiness for a weapon of its kind. It pairs especially well with builds that prize ferocity and accuracy, where a hunter can dart in, fire a handful of arrows, and retreat before the forest itself remembers the last volley. Markets along the riverfront whisper of such pieces, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a good barometer for them. Traders there trade stories as much as steel, and this bow often moves for a fair price, not a fortune—enough to feed a camp for a night, and still leave a spare string for the next venture. A buyer might haggle, skin a copper here, gain a lead there, and walk away with the kind of bargain that makes a journey feel worthwhile. When morning comes, the bow hangs again on a rack, waiting for the next chase, its soft wood ready to sing under a new hand, ready to press a story into the wood of the world. Perhaps that is the bow’s gift: it does not shout for glory, it invites a hunter to listen. The wood stores patience, the shot lands with quiet authority, and the story it carries grows lighter with each harvest and retreat.