Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Fire

Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Fire rests on the table, its soft-wood limbs curved like a rising flame, honeyed grain catching the lamp light as if the wood itself held a spark just waiting to leap. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, the string pulled tight, and along the throat a slim line of sigils—embers etched in red lacquer that glow faintly when warmth climbs into the hand. It feels alive, a thing that could hum with a hunter’s heartbeat if you held it long enough. In the corner of the workroom a chipped carving shows a small berserker’s mask, scorched edges curling like smoke, a reminder that this bow was born of fevered nights and moonlit hunts. The maker spoke little, but the lore spilled from his lips anyway. Berserkers, he said, once roamed the wilds with lungs full of wind and a will of iron, tempering their fury by turning it into focus—into arrow after arrow that found its mark. The Soft Wood Longbow of Fire is the heir to that belief: a weapon tempered by flame, carved from wood grown where heat and rain meet, designed to bend without breaking, to drink in heat and spit it back as light. When you draw the bow, the sigils flare like coals catching a breeze, and the weapon seems to lean closer, as if urging you to hurry your breath and aim with your whole body. In gameplay terms, it is a bold instrument in a world that rewards timing as much as raw power. Its fire-laced influence isn’t mere show; it channels through the shot, granting a Burning on impact that threads through opponents like a living trail of embers. For players who crave precision paired with relentless pressure, this bow sings. Its stat line — Power and Ferocity arranged with Precision and a touch of Fire-aligned effect — makes it ideal for an aggressive marksman who wants every draw, every release, to feel decisive. It asks you to gamble with distance and pace: to accelerate through momentum, then trust the flame to carry the next step. I watched a caravan guard named Lira test it along the shoulder of a sun-bleached road, the bow’s glow catching the dust in spirals as she moved. She spoke of keeping a line of raiders at bay, of letting the fire-drawn arrows carve a corridor through danger while the rest of the party pressed forward. The bow wasn’t merely a tool; it was a partner in a larger story about survival, kinship, and the fragile balance between fierceness and restraint. Prices circulate in the drums and bells of a market day, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the word gets traded as much as the item itself. There, under awnings that flap like sails, a tag swung from the bow’s carved grip: two gold and twelve silver. A trader leaned in, recounting a raid where the bow’s flame saved a caravan from night-stalking wolves and a cliffside ambush, voice low, eyes bright with the memory of a narrow escape. The price shifted with the tale, but the bow’s legend remained fixed—an emblem that fire can illuminate even the darkest road. This bow is more than wood and flame; it’s a story woven into the road between campfire and dawn. A weapon that remembers as it wounds, and a reminder that true strength often burns brightest when it burns true to its bearer.