Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Energy

Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Energy rests on a scarred trading table, its limbs—soft wood, pale with a honeyed grain—curved in a sly, ready smile. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with patience, each mark of a hunter's palm pressing into the surface. The bowstring, darker than night ash, carries a faint tremor as you draw: a pulse of amber light that seems to hum from a hidden core. Along the belly of the bow, runes are etched in quick, sharp lines—not mere decoration but a whisper of lore: this bow was woven from a wood believed to drink the wind when a berserker took to the woods, a weapon forged for those who chase fervor and fearlessness. That line of energy, visible as a thin leash of glow along the limbs, is more than a sparkle; it is an echo of the wielder's own vigor. In the stories told around fires, the Soft Wood is prized for its resilience and its forgiving draw, forgiving the unsteady hand of a novice and snapping back into shape when a veteran's shot lands true. The Berserker's mark on the grip hints at a lineage—woody totems carved by a clan that swapped quiet stares for roaring courage, a clan that believed the bow should sing when the hunter's heart does not. In the world, the bow is not merely a tool but a partner in a larger drama. A hunter on the edge of the thorny woods uses it to peel away armor with rapid, piercing shots, the energy glow lending a temporary surge to the shot that makes the target stiffen mid-fall. It’s the kind of weapon that thrives in skirmishes where speed and precision are prized; a short bow in nimble hands can weave through a battlefield like a sparrow through branches, drawing a bead, releasing, and moving again before the echo of a cry fades. The energy aura—subtle, almost shy until the moment of release—seems to share a conscience with its owner, urging a tempo that matches a heartbeat. Market whispers ride on every caravan and saddlebag: tales of a price etched in copper and silver, traded under the awning of the Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants murmur about rare finds and the fickle knees of demand. A single scroll might tell you the going rate, or a well-worn ledger might show a figure that glints like a coin in sunlight, and still the bow finds its way into pockets and quivers, into hands that will either bend it toward glory or bend it toward regret. If you hold it, you don’t just hold a weapon. You hold a fragment of a wider story, a promise that ferocity and precision can be friends, not enemies, and that wood—soft as a sigh, hard as resolve—will always remember the hunter who dares the edge and the wind itself. To collectors and frontline rangers alike, the bow remains a quiet companion, reminding that each pull writes another forest memory tonight.