Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Venom

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Venom rests on a sun-warmed counter, its limbs pale as sapwood and rasp-sanded smooth to the touch. The wood carries the faint scent of resin and rain, a texture that wants to catch light and bend it into a ghost of sound. Its grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of citrus and old prayers. The bowstring is taut, a whisper under tension, and the lacquered grain glows with a green-tinted sheen when the light hits it, as if tiny venom droplets lie just beneath the varnish. Along the belly, runes curl in soft incantations—a clerical sigil here, a tiny cobra's head there—suggesting a lineage that blends healing with violence. The tip tips are subtly sharpened, not for show but to bite into the air and into the enemy, a balance between mercy and necessity. This is not merely a weapon; it is a reliquary of memory. Local legends say the bow was carved from a tree that grew in the shadow of a monastery's bell tower, where healers and guardians convened after a sermon of poison and protection. The Venom in its title isn't just for effect—it's a promise that the shot will carry a trace of venom's lingering sting. When drawn, the weapon seems to hum with the same patient certainty that a monk might take in tending a wound: precise, controlled, unhurried. The Cleric who carried it learned to balance the gentle release of the string with the sharp impulse of the venom-tipped shaft, a duality that mirrors the temple's own paradox: to heal, sometimes one must wound. In practical terms, the bow thrives where mobility and speed matter more than raw power. Its short frame makes it ideal for skirmishes in narrow streets or shadowed glades, where reloads must be swift and aim true. The venom bolts apply a lingering poison that racks a foe over several seconds, chipping away at armor and endurance while the ranger circles for a follow-up hit. It isn't the heaviest-hitting bow in the arsenal, but it sings in a pattern: poke, poison, retreat, repeat, until the target falters and the party presses forward. Prices drift through the market like quiet gossip, and I heard a hunter mention Saddlebag Exchange as the place where traders weigh a bow's memory against its metal. A careful price tag—around three gold pieces—appeared between the purchaser and the vendor, with a caveat about condition and its venom dye fading in the sun. Saddlebag Exchange has the scent of waxed leather, coins, and ready trades, a place where relics and risks meet an honest eye. I walked away with a sense that the Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Venom isn't just gear, but a chapter in the world's ongoing story of mercy braided with danger.