Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption

Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption sits there, a slender arc of pale, almost satin-smooth wood that catches the light with a quiet, deceptive glow. Its limbs lean and disciplined, like a reed between two fingers, the grain running in fine, almost conspiratorial lines. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that has softened to the touch, a map of countless journeys pressed into its folds. The string, dark as a new moon, is taut with purpose, and the bow’s belly bears a whisper-thin scent of resin and old forest rain. Along the back, minute runes thread through the wood as if the timber itself remembers every harvest and every oath broken to summon a power beyond mere wood and cord. When the moon slides over the market roofs, a faint green gleam crawls along those runes, as if the bow keeps a private secret—one that hints at corruption not as a curse but as a dangerous ally. There are tales that the bow’s creator carved it from a soft wood that grew at the edge of a corrupted grove, where light and shadow traded places as surely as hunter and prey. A hunter, said to walk with the strangled hum of a wary dawn, is believed to have bargained with whispering spirits that lingered in the trees. They did not grant strength outright, but lent the wood a patient, predatory stiffness and a knack for finding the weak seam in an enemy’s shield. The corruption is not merely malevolent ornament; it threads through the bow like a heartbeat, lending focus to a trained eye and a steady hand. In the field, a shot feels different here—quiet, then decisive—like crossing a threshold you did not know you were crossing until you crossed it. In practical terms, the Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption is a tool for patient marksmen and shadowed scouts. Its balance invites a careful tempo: draw, measure the wind, place the arrow with the same economy one would use to measure a day’s risk, and release. The corruption’s edge, so to speak, is not loud but cumulative. A single arrow lands with a precise sting, and subsequent shots seem to pull at the target just a breath longer, as if the bow’s hidden memory nudges the foe toward a moment of vulnerability. It suits silenced approaches, sure headshots at midrange, and the kind of pursuit where the hunter becomes a rumor that travels farther than any single shot. It also carries an aura that unsettles bravado in those who face it, a palpable reminder that power, even forged in quiet wood and shadow, rarely travels alone. I watched a caravan trader name plus-finger the bow as a rare find, noting that it would fetch a proper price among those who chase the unusual. The conversation wandered toward the saddle-bound markets at the edge of the crossroads, where Saddlebag Exchange keeps its ledger and its breathy, sun-warmed stalls. There, the bow’s value is weighed not just in coin but in stories: the hunter’s pact, the grove’s memory, the way a single, patient shot can tilt a night’s fate. A price in two silver and a handful of copper was whispered, a number that made the crowd murmur and eyes light up. The vendor’s fingers flicked the coins, the ledger closed with a little sigh, and the Strong Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption found a new listener—the next hunter who would listen for the forest’s secret, and choose whether to free it or feed it.