Honed Soft Wood Short Bow of Bloodlust

Honed Soft Wood Short Bow of Bloodlust glints with a patient, almost merciful luster, its limbs carved from pale, honey-toned soft wood that catches the light like a whip of dawn. The grip, wrapped in worn leather and smoked with campfire oil, sits comfortably in the hand, while the central riser bears a line of faint runes—not bold enough to shout, but loud enough to hum when a hunter draws a breath. The bowstring sits taut and honest, a memory-tight strand that feels as if it was woven from a dozen quiet hunts. Its finish wears a whisper of amber resin, a reminder of long summers spent in shade beneath old trees where the wind seems to listen. Lore says it came from a clan of rangers who traded their silence for speed, a weapon carved to temper patience into precision, and passed along as a rite of passage from one seasoned archer to another, each owner lending a small story to its grain until the wood itself seems to remember every strike. In a world where the hunt is as much about timing as aim, this bow moves like a thought made wooden. Its precision is light as a feather on the draw, yet the impact lands with a quiet, decisive weight, as if the weapon chooses when a life should be claimed rather than merely when an arrow should fly. The Bloodlust enchantment—a humming current that threads through the limbs—seems to respond to the archer’s heartbeat, sharpening focus and quickening reflexes just enough to catch a fleeing silhouette in the corner of the eye. When a target bleeds, the bow’s magic flares in a soft crimson gleam, offering a rare, breath-held moment of lifesteal that returns a touch of vitality to the hunter. It is not a brute instrument of war, but a companion to those who stalk the world with quiet steps, waiting for the perfect moment to let fear and doubt fall away like autumn leaves. The bow’s usefulness ripples out beyond the battlefield. It is the kind of weapon that earns stories in taverns and market lanes, where wary travelers trade rumors as much as gear. Its reputation travels with the caravan, and the elders speak in measured tones about how a single shot can alter the course of a night raid or a skittish scouting mission. When a hunter lingers near a harbor market, the Bow of Bloodlust is the kind of item that draws wary glances—an artifact that promises both grace and consequence. The price, fluttering between haggled silver and stubborn gold, often lands at the Saddlebag Exchange, where a chalk-tagged sign juggles between snags of barter and nods of respect. Today, a fair wish might fetch a gold or so, with room to barter for a tale or a favor in return, as if the bow’s own legend were a currency as essential as copper and coin. And so it travels on, from palm to palm, not merely as a tool but as a living thread in a larger tapestry—the quiet backbone of hunters who keep watch over caravans and cities alike, a story carved in wood that insists on being told with every measured breath of a drawn bow.