Honed Soft Wood Short Bow of Bloodlust

Honed Soft Wood Short Bow of Bloodlust rests on the market counter, its limbs pale as a strand of river-silver wood, the grain curling like a quiet map of rivers through soft amber varnish. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, threads of crimson stitching along the seam catching the light with every subtle twist of the wrist. The bowstring is a whisper of sinew, taut enough to snap a branch clean and patient enough to hold its breath through a long chase. Along the belly, faint sigils are burned into the wood—tiny runes that glow briefly when the bow is drawn, as if the hunter-lore that nurtured it still lingers in the air. A crest of a red fang, etched near the nocks, pulses with a faint warmth, a reminder that this weapon was forged in the age of whispered promises and first hunts. The scent of pine resin clings to the lacquer, and a softness to the touch betrays its careful, patient crafting. It feels old and alive at once, a bridge between quiet forest lanes and the bright, brutal urgency of a fight. In the hands of a practiced ranger, its balance becomes a conversation. The soft wood gives with a gentle flex, the shot landing with a swift, almost respectful precision. The Bloodlust suffix is not merely decoration; it's a banner that blooms when a hunter finds the moment to strike. Rumors tell of a quiet pact between bow and bearer, when blood-sense and breath-trick combine to push a little more energy into the draw, a heartbeat quickened and a target caught by the edge of wild luck. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a long patrol feel purposeful, turning a routine drift through brush into a hunt with meaning, where each arrow seems to carry a small part of the world’s old appetite for survival. Prices drift through the market like smoke. I heard a trader mention Saddlebag Exchange as the place where such a bow might find its next owner, priced in coins that ride the line between necessity and luxury. The ledger glowed with a few listings at a season’s earnings, and the talk among buyers was not merely about numbers but about stories—who once held the bow, what hunt it would soon bless, and which path it would help someone brave in the coming days. For the right hunter, this is not just a tool but a companion, a whispering confidant that carries the weight of the forest and the hunger of the chase. It asks for care, too—a careful hand on the string, a breath held steady, a promise to respect the life that the arrow may soon take. When I turn away, the bow remains the same—a slender promise of velocity, a reminder that the world can shift on a single well-tuned draw. It is a piece of living history, waiting for a hand patient enough to listen to its soft, wooden heart. Its quiet promise keeps calling me.