Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Accuracy

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Accuracy rests on a sun-warmed rack, its limbs pale as dawn birch and carved with a river-smooth grain that seems to pause time. The grip, wrapped in worn leather, smells faintly of rain and old campaigns, and the string is taut as a violin string, humming softly when you draw it closer. The finish is a honeyed gloss, lacquered by hands that learned patience rather than haste. Along the riser run slender sigils—temple runes pressed into the wood by a scribe who never hurried—hinting at a ritual blessing bestowed before a caravan crossing or a night’s patrol. It’s not a showpiece so much as a quiet tool, the kind that earns trust by listening rather than shouting. In its presence you hear the world settle into alignment as the arrow leaves. The soft wood’s forgiving grain seems to cradle the shot, the limb snapping back with a calm, almost affectionate precision. The banner marked Accuracy promises that every release has a purpose: a target in focus, a split-second of time saved from wind and doubt. Clerics who carry healing in one hand and a calculated mercy in the other—rangers, guards, and wanderers between towns—learn to rely on such a bow when the distance grows and the night grows loud. It asks for patience, and in return it gives you a chance to aim with your breath, not your fear. Markets tell the rest of the story. At Saddlebag Exchange, where crates thump and blankets snap in the wind, traders haggle over the worth of a weapon that has walked many miles. A well-preserved Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Accuracy tends to fetch around 1 gold and 25 silver, a price that rewards the care given to its stave and the memory imbued in its sigils. The price wobbles with season and supply, and a patient buyer can listen to the bow’s history as easily as to a teller’s tale—its past owners, the patrols it carried, the moments when a quiet shot saved a life or a convoy. It travels still, from hand to hand and from one dawn to the next. Each owner polishes the grip a shade lighter, adjusts the string a beat sooner, and adds a memory to the small ledger in the back of the mind: the feel of aim refined, the weight of a vow kept. It becomes more than wood and cord; it becomes a chapter in a shared story, a thread running through the world’s long, patient loom. And if you lift it now, you hear a whisper of its origin—the temple sigils, the patient craft, the promise that every arrow finds its mark when the archer has learned to listen as much as to shoot.