Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Venom

Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Venom lay on the table, demanding attention. Its limbs are warm honey-brown soft wood, polished to a velvet sheen catching lantern light. The riser bears a sinewy, serpent-like pattern; the grip is wrapped in worn leather smelling of sand and rain. A brass line runs along the edge, catching light as it shifts. The string is a sinew-resin whisper, taut to promise a straight flight yet yielding to a quick draw. On the belly, a shallow green-glass inlay gleams in sunlight. The whole thing feels alive, as if it learned the wind’s language—the wood breathing, the venom waiting to be freed. Lore ties this bow to the old berserkers who rode at the frontier of peace and crisis, who trusted speed and boldness over armor. They believed that venom can teach restraint, that a focused strike, once infused with a patient sting, can turn the tide without shouting for it. So this weapon was crafted to be quick in the hands of those who balance fury with precision. The soft wood absorbs shocks from wild charges, carrying the arrow with a quiet confidence, and the venom—though sealed in the chamber—lingers like a memory in the air, ready to ride the first tip of the next quarrel. In battlefield skirmishes, the bow’s role is to hunt in the gray zone between threat and retreat, to punish carelessness with a venom-touched shot that blooms into a slow, painful aftermath. A volley fired with this short bow bites with a double edge: the arrow lands with puncture and the venom lingers, like a memory in the air, waiting to undermine a foe’s steady pace. It suits a hunter who dances on the edge of recklessness, who can step in, strike fast, and melt back into cover before the echo of retaliation returns. For a scout, it is a companion and a whisper, a weapon you trust when the world narrows to a trench of enemies and you can slip through with a breath. The marketplace tells its own tale, and that is where Saddlebag Exchange enters the story. I watched the vendor trade the bow between caravans, the dealer’s chalky hands moving with the rhythm of ship bells, murmuring that its price would drift with the tides of demand, sometimes a little more when the crowd is hungry for power, sometimes less when the road is crowded with iron and fear. I weighed the joy of owning it against the copper still jingling in my pocket, and in the end I paid what the ledger called fair. The bow found its new path in my grip, its venom waiting to teach restraint once more, and the road ahead welcomed us both.