Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption

Perched on the table, the Berserker's Soft Wood Short Bow of Corruption gleams with a quiet menace. The limbs are slender and light, fashioned from a soft, pale wood whose grain runs like fading ink through ivory. The bow's curve is tight but forgiving, a natural arc that seems to breathe as it catches the lamplight. A thin coating of oil stains the surface, catching bronze glints where the runes are pressed into the wood. Along the belly, a procession of sigils coils in dark relief, serpents of corruption that shimmer when the light shifts. The grip is wrapped in saddle-brown hide, stitched with copper thread that has darkened to a warm patina with years of handling. The string is a whisper-thin braid of white sinew, taut enough to snap at a command but smooth enough to slide a willow shaft with minimal resistance. The overall effect is a weapon that looks more like a relic than a tool, as if it were carved from a storm-walker's memory rather than plain timber. The name carries its own weight: Berserker's, a badge earned by those who chase glory in the heat of combat; Soft Wood, a nod to the quiet, almost patient resilience of the material; Short Bow, a sign of speed and precision; of Corruption, a warning that power here is tempered by a dangerous, hungry energy. When you nock an arrow and draw, the bow seems to answer with a soft thrum, a small tremor that travels up the arm and into the shoulder. The first shot cuts cleanly through air, finding its mark with a hunter's quiet certainty. It is not a weapon for patient standoffs, but for rapid strikes, for exploiting openings while a foe staggers under a barrage of skill and luck. The bow's place in the larger story is not merely as equipment but as a hinge between trader’s memory and battlefield memory. In skirmishes that spill into winding alleys and ember-lit camps, berserkers favor this bow for its blend of reach, draw speed, and a savage tendency to crit when the moment is maddeningly right. Its corruption-suffused energy feeds on reckless momentum, rewarding players who pace their aggression with timing and cunning. I watched a ranger switch to this bow after a hard-won victory, the emblem on the grip catching the firelight as he spoke of debts paid and promises kept to a mercantile partner who once sold relics styled after this same lineage. When I found it, the price was etched into a parchment-listing at Saddlebag Exchange, a name whispered among traders who chase rare calibrations of power and fate. The tag read a fair coin’s weight, not gold, and I learned to bargain with quiet patience, letting the item’s story do the talking while coins traded hands in the bustle of a crowded market street. The bow rested in my pack, ready to sing again whenever the next storm of arrows rose from the shadows. Its rumor travels farther than any shot.