Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Grawl Slaying

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Grawl Slaying rests on a sun-warmed table, its pale ash limbs bending with a quiet, almost pious grace. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that has the faint scent of pine sap and old campfires, every turn of the wrap giving a micro-pinch of character to those who hold it. The bowstring, a taut, resin-glossed line, gleams when the lamp light catches it, as if a river of dawn is captured in its fibers. The riser bears a careful engraving—a small shield flanked by two blade-etched sigils—carved by a cleric whose hands moved between hymn and hearth, binding compassion and discipline into the wood. The finish is smooth, almost whispering under fingertips, and a carved dove despairs into a subtle downward curve at the tip, a symbol of mercy that sits at odds with the weapon’s grim purpose. There’s lore tied to its soft wood, a material chosen not for flash but for balance. The cleric-workshop that birthed it favored dawn-warmed ash and birch slats because they offered a forgiving spine, one that could carry a quiet shot through a crowded street or a windy hillside without trembling into a misfire. It was said the bow chose its owner as much as the owner chose it, finding a hunter who could blend patience with precision. In the days when caravans moved through scarred passes and villages counted every ally, this bow earned its keep by the faith whispered into its lacquered grip: protect the weak, end the threat to the innocent, then vanish before vengeance could take root. In the field, its value becomes a character of the world itself. A hunter named Arin rides between shattered hedges and the rusted shells of old war camps, using the Cleric’s Soft Wood Short Bow to tag a lone Grawl from a shadowed doorway, to string a line of quiet fire between danger and the travelers he guards. The weapon’s wood-spring recoil is lighter than steel and heavier than fear, granting Arin the speed to drop a target and pivot to the next threat before a skirmish becomes a cyclone of noise. It is the sort of tool that earns trust in a world where a single alert heartbeat can save a wagon and its riders. When a misfit band of roving raiders tries to press into a pass, the bow’s understated power lets arrows land with surgical intent, avoiding collateral harm while shoring up a story of mercy with each liberated breath. Market days soften the weapon’s glow with real-world weight. In the crowded aisles near the river—where cloth, herbs, and odds and ends spill from one stall to the next—the Saddlebag Exchange usually whispers a practical truth about it: a bow like this, well-used and lightly enchanted by time, sits in the two-silver to three-silver range, depending on how much bark remains on the grip and how bravely the buyer bargains. A traveler who haggles with a practiced smile can walk away with the sense that they’ve traded not just metal and string, but a small oath—an instrument that will keep faith while the world keeps turning. So it sits, the Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Grawl Slaying, not merely as a weapon but as a companion in the ongoing ledger of mercy and courage. It invites the next rider to decide whom to shelter, and which threat to silence, with a quiet, unwavering accuracy that feels almost like a vow kept by hand.