Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching

Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching rests on a faded velvet cloth, its soft wood a pale honey color that catches the lamplight with a quiet sheen. The limbs curl with a natural ease, as if grown into their shape by wind and patience rather than carved by hands. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stained a shade that matches well-traveled palms, and the texture invites a steady, confident hold. Running along the underside is a thread of ink-dark grain, and etched into the riser are delicate sigils—seven small crescents, two bones intertwined, a single radiance that seems to breathe when the bow is drawn. When you tilt it toward the room, a faint, almost inaudible sigh travels through the string, like the bow remembering a long journey and asking you to finish it. The surface bears the touch of many hands: smooth here, rough there where a nail once caught on a knot in the wood, as if the weapon has been tested by countless travelers who trusted it to bridge the gap between life and injury. The lore carried in those sigils speaks of mercy as well as ruin—the clerics who once carried this bow believed the weapon could return a portion of life to the wounded as it slipped an arrow into fate’s ledger. The arrows themselves seem to drink in light, and under moon or candle, a pale glimmer traces the wood’s grain, a reminder that the bow was forged for healing as much as hunting. Its true calling lies in the enchantment whispered by the craftsmen who bound it: Leeching. A hit does more than wound; it siphons a measure of essence from the target and returns it to the bearer, stitching back health with each successful strike. In a skirmish that bleeds you dry, it becomes a patient ally, turning a rough road into a survivable stretch. It favors precision and pace over brute force, rewarding the sharpshooter who can marry timing to restraint, who knows that every arrow can be a small harbor in a storm. In dense cover or a street’s pinch, that lifeforce trickle can mean the difference between falling back to heal and pressing forward with quiet momentum. The bow fits a larger story in the world, where healers and wanderers trade favors as deftly as they trade arrows. It is not merely a weapon but a companion to those who walk the edge between mercy and necessity, a tool that keeps a traveler on the road a notch longer than would be possible with pure endurance alone. Its presence changes the cadence of a fight; foes learn to watch for the subtle glow along the sigils, and wielders learn to pace their shots, drawing breath and life from the same moment. When a curious buyer surfaces in the bustling market, the practical question of worth rises quickly. In a place where traders measure risk in coin and memory in stories, the price of Cleric's Soft Wood Short Bow of Leeching can drift. At the Saddlebag Exchange, coins pass from palm to palm with a mix of haste and reverence, and the bow’s value often lands somewhere around a dozen silver, give or take a few copper depending on the buyer’s temper, the seller’s story, and the bow’s aura that day. I watched it trade hands once, the leather-wrapped grip making a soft sigh of approval as it found a new guardian, and I understood that some weapons outgrow their owners only to bless the next.