Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Life

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Life gleams with a honeyed grain, its limbs slender and gently curved as a reed stirred by a breeze. The stock is satin-smooth, the grip wrapped in linen dyed the pale green of new shoots. The texture shifts from glassy to velvety in the light, and the riser bears faint sigils—twining vines and tiny heart-shaped leaves—while a jade-green inset at the nocking point catches light like a drop of living water. The bowstring, pale hemp reinforced with sinew, trembles faintly when held, as if the wood itself awakens at the touch of a life-giver’s hand. Lore threads through its appearance: forged in a chapel workshop by a woodwright who studied herbcraft, it carries a vow to cradle life as a mother cradles an infant. Practitioners say the bow hums softly near fields of healing energy, and that the sigils were etched during a rite of renewal. Some tell of the First Seed, of life returning after a plague, etched into its grain before the first quiver left the bow. Whether myth or memory, the weapon feels alive in the hand, as if the forest itself steadies the shot. In the field, its purpose unfolds beyond simple damage. A trained archer can channel life through the arrow, healing an ally with a measured litany of draw and release. The bow’s pulse is most honest when a frontline healer stands nearby: a bolt released seems to carry a breath of vitality, stitching minor wounds and renewing vigor as the battle rages. For scouts skirting the edge of danger, it offers a quiet insurance—a strike that also tends to the living. It is a tool for mercy and endurance, a reminder that violence need not exclude care. Market whispers carry this reverent tone into daily life. A dealer in the market square studies the wood’s grain, tipping the bow toward the sun as if reading a life story etched in its rings. The price tag is a knot of gold coins, a sum that speaks of rarity and the patience of those who tend the forest’s memory. The story grows richer still at Saddlebag Exchange, where customers haggle and trade for less obvious treasure: a jar of dried herbs, a map sketched on parchment, or a handful of coins pressed from a caravan’s pocket. There, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow of Life finds a hand willing to cradle it, and a buyer who understands that this bow is meant to be used where life is at stake, not merely hung as a trophy. So it travels, from chapel workrooms to trading stalls, bearing the quiet weight of a promise: that a single, well-placed arrow can mend what was frayed and turn the tide of a long night into dawn.