Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Fire

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Fire rests on the palm of a weathered hand, the wood almost luminescent with a pale amber grain that catches the sun. Its limbs are slender and softly curved, like a leaf-slung bow carved from a tree that remembers rain, not a manufactured thing. The soft wood is forgiving to the draw, yet holds a surprising snap when the string catches, a quick hum of heat along the stave that travels up the forearm. Along the grip, burnished runes coil in copper thread, a border of scorch motifs curling toward the tip. The surface bears faint scuffs where camp fires pressed against wood and stories pressed into the weapon's memory. A tiny ember flickers at the nocking point, a remnant of some old rite or perhaps a signature of the rampager smith who coaxed life from the plain pine. When you cradle it, the bow seems to breathe. A warmth travels through the palm, not a burn but a promise; arrows plucked from a quiver seem to take on a little extra life, as if the wood remembers the hunter who used it to chase ember-touched beasts across scrub and scree. The "of Fire" label is not mere garnish—it's a river of influence: flames lick the edge of your perception as you aim, and secondary effects ripple to the target with every shot. The shaft you nock slides with a reluctant ease, and the string tightens with a whisper like a secret shared between hunter and guardian. Lore speaks of Rampagers as guardians who ride the edge of wildfire and forest shadow, a band of scouts who learned to bend flame without letting it burn their hands. This bow carries that lineage, a token from a workshop where woodcarvers trade lore with old rangers. If you listen carefully, you can hear in the wood the patter of camp rain and the crackle of a distant blaze—an invitation to trust the weapon to place fire where it will do the most good and the least harm. In practice, it becomes part of a larger story: skirmishes where to-be-battle arcs are decided by the quick snap of a string and the immediate bloom of a fire-trace on the ground. You shoot ahead of a line of allies, drawing the attention of a hungry foe while a companion breathes out a cloud of smoke to slow pursuers. That’s the rhythm the bow favors—precision and speed, a burn that lingers, turning a chase into a chain of decisions. The market outside town talks softly of scarcity and supply, and at Saddlebag Exchange, a veteran dealer named Maro priced the weapon with a measured glance, tapping the wood with a nail and muttering about rare heat-cured stock. Silver coins change hands, and the bow finds a new user who knows that fire can illuminate the path as surely as it can scorch it. By dusk, the rampager’s creed rides in hands, and woods lean closer, listening for danger nearby.