Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching rests on the rough oak table, its slender curve catching the lamplight like a pale, carved crescent. The wood grain runs in soft, deliberate rings, as if the tree sang to be chosen for gentler hands—the kind of wood you expect to click softly when you nock an arrow. The grip is wrapped in worn deer-hide, rubbed to a tasteful patina, and the draw-stroke feels almost lazy, a whisper more than a pull. Brass fittings glint along the limbs, and the string, a hair-thin filament tinted amber, sings with every flex. A faint sigil, etched in a coppery thread, winds along the belly, a promise of life returned to the hunter who spills their foe’s life into their own. In its lore, the bow is tied to a rampager who believed in balance—kill with mercy, take back what you give, and leave the forest healthier than you found it. Or so the tavern talk goes. On the field, the Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching is more than a pretty relic. Its touch carries a lifesteal enchantment: every successful on-hit draws a portion of the target's vitality back toward the archer, a reminder that the forest itself keeps score. It suits skirmishers who slip through hedges, hitting from cover and stepping back into shadow as health pools refill. The short bow's light weight and crisp balance allow rapid follow-ups, turning a single volley into a measured trickle of sustain. Players who chase power and survivability find that Leeching is a quiet partner in a dangerous world, letting them keep pace with melee threats while conserving their supply—especially in damp, drawn-out hunts where every arrow has a heartbeat. Like many rare pieces, it doesn’t stay in one armory forever. The market of the road—traders, scavengers, and memory-laden buyers—tells a different tale. I watched a tall hunter haggle with a seller at Saddlebag Exchange, where rusted chests and whisper-soft leather sacks crowd a narrow alley between the river and the last stalls. The bow shifted hands for a fair sum—around eighteen silver in the morning light, a price a hunter would remember when the harvest came late and the dry season kept coin scarce. The vendor spoke of provenance—the rampager who carved a vow into the wood, the old lumber saved from a grove that refused to surrender to flame. A buyer asked for proof of the enchantment; the seller slid a parchment that bore the sigil of Leeching, and the tale settled into the spine of the weapon. It was not merely steel and wood; it was a story that walked away with the buyer, threaded into a quiver of new hunts. When out on the road again, with dust in the throat and a wind-broken smile, the bow feels like a companion—quiet, faithful, always ready to return what was taken, a small oath carved into hard wood and soft light. In every campaign, it reminds me to leave the forest richer than I found it.