Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony

Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony rests in my palm, its limbs pale as driftwood and the grain winding like a map of rivers that vanished into the trees. The ends are sanded smooth, worn by years of contact with palm, with a faint resin scent clinging to the fibers. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that has molded to a hunter's fingers, and the carved runes along the belly glow faintly when the light hits them, as if the wood itself remembers every draw and release. On its belly the wood bears the lacquered mark of a rampager's workshop, a tacit promise that a seeker of swift vengeance has passed this way. The 'of Agony' suffix speaks of battles won in shadowed passes—where fear was a partner and the arrow's sting was a listener. Legends say the soft wood was harvested from a tree that learned to bend under wind without breaking, a fitting spine for a bow meant to bend a foe's resolve as well as their armor. When you lift it, the world tightens: the air seems to sharpen, the brush overhead hushes, and you hear the faint whisper of string and sinew coming into alignment with your breath. Out here, in the dusk between trader tents and watchfires, the Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony isn't just a tool; it is a conductor of tempo. It asks for nimble hands and a hunter's patience, rewarding rapid, precise shots that let you strip a foe's attention from your companions and vanish into the brush before they count to three. The short bow's light weight and supple limbs make it ideal for skirmishes: you can snap a volley, retreat, and snap again, keeping pressure on frontline troops while your allies press the charge. The arrow's tip—trained to bite, not just pierce—follows the rhythm of a veteran's step, finding gaps in armor where consent to fear should have held. At Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a clerk unroll the price tag like a map. The numbers glinted: twenty silver, perhaps a little more on a busy market day, a bargain for a weapon that carries both memory and velocity. A traveler bartered a stack of copper and a tale of a night raid, and the banker of the cart-lot—with a shrug—ticked the ledger, letting the silver coins clink and remind him that this bow travels, not just with a hunter, but with a dozen stories. Carrying it, you realize the bow is less a weapon and more a waypoint—between villages, between battles, between the present and the memory of a hunter who taught you to listen to the wind until it speaks back. The Rampager's Soft Wood Short Bow of Agony, with its pale wood, scarred grip, and runes that glow only for those who truly listen, keeps walking the line: a piece of the world that does not stay still, but moves with the hands of anyone who chooses to draw it. Its story travels on.