Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water

Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Water lay on the workshop bench, its limbs pale as driftwood and smooth to the touch, the grain curling like streams beneath a quiet dawn. The stock glowed with a pale, almost milky sheen, as if the wood had soaked in mist and memory alike. Its grip was wrapped in weathered leather the color of river clay, and the string sang a taut, half-hollow note when you pluck it—bright, clean, and a touch rasping, like a sword being drawn from its sheath. Delicate blue runes traced along the ribs, not garish but patient, water-borne sigils that shimmer a moment when the light shifts, as if the bow itself remembers a tide coming in. The overall silhouette is compact and sure, a weapon built for speed rather than brute force, its stance ready to snap to attention in a heartbeat. The name, carved in a careful hand across the riser, carries a whisper of the old berserkers who learned to temper their rage with the discipline of river and rain, letting fury ride the current rather than crash against it. Lore has it that this bow was forged where land meets tide, by a smith who walked the line between bone-deep fury and the calm of a half-drowned lagoon. They spoke of a vow—to let the water guide the arrow as surely as the shoulder turns the string. Those who wield it insist the Soft Wood remembers the river’s lull as well as its flood; it rewards a hunter who can balance instinct with patience, who can wait for the telltale ripple in an opponent’s stance before the first whisper of release. In the field, the bow feels like a companion who never raises its voice yet always speaks the truth of the shot—fate folded into the arc, a path carved through spray and shadow. From a gameplay perspective, the Berserker’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Water is more than looks. It’s the sort of tool that suits a skirmisher who thrives in closer quarters, trading the raw weight of heavy gear for a snappy tempo. Its draw is responsive, forgiving enough to keep a quick cadence on the move, yet precise enough to ride the line between a rapid-fire volley and a single, decisive strike. When the tide turns and you need to thread an arrow through a crowded melee, its water-infused aesthetics feel less like magic and more like habit—the aim steadies as if the shooter’s breath is synchronized with a current beyond sight, and the tip seems to cut through air with the same ease a boat slips around a rock. Markets outside the forge remind us that artifacts like this aren’t merely instruments but stories made tangible. I heard whispers of a buyer who weighed the bow against a purse and a promise, the kind of trade that travels from campfire to caravan and ends up at Saddlebag Exchange, where rivulets of barter and coin flow like a shallow stream widening into a river market. The price chit suggested a range grounded in scarcity and desirability, a couple gold with a handful of silver for good measure—enough to reflect its rarity, its craftsmanship, and the quiet weight of the water sigils etched along the limbs. In the end, what matters is not just the bronze glint or the price tag, but how the bow threads its own small current into the larger story of the world: a weapon that respects the calm as much as the storm, and a reminder that even Berserkers can learn to bend the tide.