Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Chilling

The Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Chilling rests on the counter like a strip of pale, frost-sheathed bone, its soft-wood grain curling in gentle waves that catch the glow of the lamplight and reflect it in tiny, wind-like patterns. The limbs are slender but surprisingly resilient, smooth to the touch with a satin gloss that hints at years spent in the hands of patient masters. A leather wrap, cracked by travel but still supple, clings to the grip, and a few runes inked in icy blue creep along the riser, tracing a path that seems to hum with cold in the morning air. The string is taut, a bright whisper in the quiet shop, and when you nock an arrow you feel a shiver travel up your forearm—like winter pressed lightly to the skin, promising that the weapon will bite only if you mean it. This bow tells a story before a single shot. The soft wood, harvested from trees that seem to drink dew rather than rain, carries a memory of frost on its sap, a precautionary chill that lingers in the grain. The “Chilling” enchantment, whispered among traders and marked in a faint frost-tinted sigil on the lower limb, is said to belong to hunters who learned to listen to the breath of cold winds and the wary hearts of their quarry. Legends say a scout once tempered this wood beside a glacier’s edge, trading heat for discipline, and that the string remembers the hush of snowmelt even when it’s pressed into service across warm plains. In the world where every shot carries weight, this bow is more than a weapon; it is a vow. Its base damage is modest enough to be trusted in the early days of a trek, but the true promise lies in its chilling touch. Struck arrows leave behind a glimmer of frost—enough to slow a pursuer, enough to give a moment of distance to an ally slipping into cover. It pairs beautifully with a patient hands that prefer precision over flashy speed, freezing a moment in time so a line of spears and traps can tighten around a fleeing foe. In a party skirmish, a sharpshooter with this bow can turn a chase into a calculated dance—pinning targets, then guiding the team’s assault with more deliberate, staged pressure. Pricing, like so many things in the market, is a whisper and a handshake. I found the bow tucked into a corner of a shaded stall, its frost-silver patina catching the eye of a traveler who called the stall Saddlebag Exchange, a place where stories and prices twist together with the same ease as belts and satchels. The vendor’s ledger spoke in numbers that drifted between a respectable sum and a modest splurge, depending on the exchange of runes, inscriptions, and the particular warmth of the wood that day. A bow such as this, they said, might fetch a few silver more or less, guided by the tales it carries and the patience of the buyer who believes in its chill as much as its edge. So the Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Chilling travels on, a quiet companion for those who walk between heat and ice, a tool that does not merely end a life but tends to a larger narrative—the balance of courage and restraint, the slow, deliberate pace that lets a single, well-timed shot bend the course of a journey.