Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water catches the late sun as if it were a stream caught mid-sprint, the grain of the soft wood running like the current beneath a mossy bank. The limbs are slim and flexible, carved with curling runes that shimmer faintly when the bow rests on the palm. The string sings a quiet note when drawn, a pale line of frost that never quite melts, and the grip is wrapped in leather worn smooth by years of quick, sure draws. Its timber looks almost translucent up close, as if the wood itself remembers rain and river before it became weapon—a patient, patient thing that yields rather than breaks. A tiny crest, two fish leaping through a ripple, is burned into the riser, a nod to the old river-binders who taught young hunters to listen to water. In the world where arrows tell stories as much as they wound, this Rampager’s bow carries its own legend. It is named for a lineage of hunters who trusted aggression tempered by grace, who learned to wait for the perfect moment and then release with the calm of a driftwood log riding a current. The “of Water” suffix isn’t merely ornamental: it’s said to tune the glow along the limbs, so arrows cross targets with a faint, watery hue, leaving behind a trail that lingers like a memory in fog. Practitioners who favor quick, clean shots—snaps of movement that require no second thought—find its balance forgiving yet relentless, a partner that encourages a swift, practiced rhythm rather than brute force. In skirmishes or quiet hunts, the bow’s lightness and springy feel let a hunter weave through cover and strike from angles others miss. It asks for timing, not mass, and rewards those who listen to the river inside their own breath. The weapon’s true status, however, emerges in the market as soon as the lanterns are lit and stories start to pour from stall to stall. It isn’t merely a tool; it’s a passport through memory, and savvy buyers know there are more currents than coin. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders spin tales as deftly as they trade trinkets, one elderly vendor will name a price that reflects its provenance as much as its performance. While the exact cost shifts with seasons and supply, those who have walked the river markets tell you the bow commands respect, and that respect travels with you when you shoulder it and step into the rain. It remains, in the end, a faithful companion for those who listen to water—and a trigger for stories that ripple long after the last arrow sails away. On campaign trails it becomes a reliable ally along river routes, where quarrels flare and the rain slicks the stones. The wood's lightness invites quick draws, but its resilience keeps pace with a hunter who knows when to hold and when to loose. Some tell of buying it in a monsoon, trading rain for steel, and carrying that memory into every storm-wet day that follows.