Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony rests on a weathered oak table, its limbs pale as ash and the grain running like quiet rivers beneath a thin lacquer that has learned to resist rain and footsteps. The grip is wrapped in a strip of worn leather, mottled with oil and fingerprints, as if dozens of hands have found courage here before stepping back into the world. The string hums a faint, resin-sweet note when you bend it, a sound almost like a whispered prayer. Along the riser, sigils—simple thorned circles, a crescent, a small heart—are burned into the wood, their edges softened by time, as if the bow remembers a dozen small, stubborn promises it once helped fulfill. The wood itself feels soft to the touch, not brittle, yet with a pliability that speaks of careful tempering—enough give to respond to a precise draw, enough stiffness to send a bolt true across the field. The Agony rune etched near the grip glints faintly in lamplight, a quiet menace that never shouts but always asks what you intend to do with mercy and power. This is a weapon born from a strange council of healers and wardens who believed pain could be transmuted into focus. They carved the bow from wood that grew in a sheltered grove, where whispers of old prayers were said to slow the wind, to bend it toward intention rather than force. The name Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony isn’t just a label; it’s a ledger of connection. It links the bearer to a lineage that cherished restraint as a form of strength, to a monastery where every shot was measured against a larger mercy. When you draw and release, the bow seems to carry a small echo of that discipline—a release that lands with a twinge, not a blaze, as if agony is a catalyst for clarity, not just a weapon’s cold efficiency. In gameplay terms, the bow’s design rewards speed and precision. Its shorter frame makes it nimble in the hands of skirmishers who must weave through allies and foes alike, firing bursts between healing stanzas and retreating shadows. The Soft Wood’s resilience ensures you can lean into shots with steady pressure, every arrow a tentative vow that your focus will hold when the world rattles. Some legends say the Agony sigil amplifies condition transfer, letting clean line-of-sight hits ripple with lingering effects—poison, burn, or bleeding—long enough to tilt a skirmish without breaking the party’s rhythm. Practically, it’s a weapon for the patient, for someone who understands that mercy still fights, and sometimes the most merciful thing is to end a threat before it can hurt again. The day I watched it pass from stall to admirer, the price lingered in the air—a neat, honest sum that felt right in a market where history has a price tag. Saddlebag Exchange buzzed with travelers trading stories and wares, and a veteran trader told me two silver would bring the bow into someone’s hands with a story to tell upon every draw. The vendor’s fingers skated along the sigils as if coaxing a memory loose, and for a heartbeat the room carried the weight of a dozen small prayers. So the Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony isn't merely a tool; it's a quiet hinge in a larger story—the kind of artifact that threads through caravans, keeps a village named in whispered prayers, and invites a careful hand to walk the line between pain and mercy, between duty and grace.