Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Life

Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Life glints with a patient amber sheen, its soft-grained limbs arching like a drawn breath held in anticipation. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, worn smooth by hands that have measured miles of wind and fear, while a delicate runic lattice crawls along the lower horn where grip meets limb. The bowstring, spun from moon-dark fibers, sings faintly when touched, a whisper of vitality that seems to travel from the wood into the archer’s pulse. The wood itself feels alive, as if the forest’s memory resides in every curve, every knot, every sap-gleam that catches the light and refuses to let go. A small badge, the Berserker’s talon curling over a leaf, is carved into the riser, a reminder that raw force here is tempered by patience and a patient, breath-held focus. When the sun catches the lilting grain, the color shifts from honey to copper to a mossy green, as if the bow were a living thing choosing when to reveal its true heritage. Lore threads through its surface as surely as grain threads through the wood. The Soft Wood speaks of forests that endure even when banners fall, and of a Berserker who learned to wield ferocity like a storm’s edge while listening for the forest’s counsel in the spaces between battles. The Life pact woven into its core is said to come from a forest spirit who offered a tempering gift: a quiet vitality bound to the arrow’s flight, a fraction of the hunter’s life returning not as vanity, but as protection for the hunter’s kin and companions. An arrow fired from it seems to carry a heartbeat, a subtle pulse that lingers in the air before the impact, as if the wood itself is lending shape to a second chance. In the world, its significance comes alive in the field. A bow with Berserker’s edge invites a reckoning—speed, accuracy, and risk become a single unit of art. The Life enchantment turns every successful strike into a whispered alliance with the self, granting a sliver of healing with each keen draw and, for those who read the wind correctly, a cascade of vitality that can turn a skirmish into a narrow, breath-held victory. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a hunter feel like a guardian, a scout who can pull a waking forest into the heart of a fight and bend danger toward mercy as much as toward pain. Pair it with fast, cunning play, and the bow seems to guide you, not merely to hit targets but to shepherd your own survival through a storm of arrows. Market days carry their own story, and Saddlebag Exchange is a chorus you’ll hear in the background as merchants swap tales and prices. The bow’s worth in coin is a living thing, drifting with demand and reputation—roughly in the high single to mid-teens gold range, depending on its condition, the mood of the market, and the stories attached to its spine. I watched a clerk tilt his head toward the item and murmur that a buyer could walk away with it for a fair trade—perhaps a handful of rare runes, a stash of jade trinkets, and a modest pouch of coin. In the end, the exchange rests not just on metal and ink, but on what the bow can do for a road-weary party, and what a single archer might become because they carried it into the light of a setting sun.