Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of the Hydromancer

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of the Hydromancer sits on the rough-hewn table like a rumor made solid. The soft wood glows pale, almost milky under lamplight, its grain wending in wind-swept loops that invite a touch. The limbs are slender, flexible yet strong, carved with fine runes that shimmer when rain-dark air brushes the room. A lacquered sheen coats the surface, dulling to a satin sheen that catches the mage-fire glow without glare. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, worn smooth by hands that have hunted riverbanks and mountain trails, and the edges carry a scalloped relief that catches the corner of a hunter’s eye. Centered between the limbs, a hydromancer’s sigil coils like a wave curling around a droplet, a whispered oath that the weapon drinks from water's discipline as readily as from wind. The string—pale as river mist—holds itself with a patient tension, and the moment it’s drawn the bow seems to murmur, an answering sigh to the wind. In the field, this is more than ornament. Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow favors care over rush, its balance forgiving of impatient hands and brutal weather. The Hydromancer’s mark is not mere decoration; it whispers of precision, of shots that kiss a target rather than bite through it. Fire-and-ice, rain-and-dusk, the bow seems to find a rhythm with the pursuit of a moving quarry. Arrows rise with a soft hiss, feathers brushing the air, and the sigil’s glow settles into a measured wake that guides the flight to its mark. A good bow like this teaches a hunter to listen: to pace, to read the wind, to feel the wood surrender and then spring back as the wind shifts. Market talk threads through the tale in a way river currents braid through stones. I’ve watched it passed from one camp to another, traded with a knowing nod for stories of rivers you’ve crossed and storms you’ve weathered. Saddlebag Exchange—that roving bazaar that drifts from port to camp—once priced Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of the Hydromancer at twelve silvers and fifty copper, a figure that made sense to someone who could swap a jar of river silt and a worn map for a trusted companion. The traders swore the bow held its temper in rain and slept soundly when pockets grew light, a mercy to those who walk long lines of daybreak. What makes it linger in memory is less the price than the sense that it was built to endure journeys—to adapt, to listen, to bring a hunter home with the whisper of a successful aim. It isn’t a weapon so much as a partner who keeps time with your breath and lets the water’s memory guide the shot. When I carry it across a fog-lapped pass, I hear currents in the wood and patience in the string. The Hydromancer’s bow, in its soft grace, asks for trust, not force, and grants accuracy in return, as if the river itself were guiding the aim. For you.