Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Chilling

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Chilling rests against the edge of a sunlit shelf, its limbs pale as driftwood and smooth as a well-loved violin bow. The grain runs like a frozen river, fine lines weaving a pattern that catches the light with every small movement of the room. A wrap of soft-tanned leather coils the grip, worn smooth by years of carrying weight and wind. Along the riser, frost-silver runes glide in shallow relief, as if the bow had learned to breathe in winter and to remember it in every shot. The string, a taut whisper of sinew, sings faintly when stroked, and with the first draw you feel the chill travel up your forearm, as if a cold breath had slipped from the wood and found a home on your skin. It isn’t merely a weapon; it is a memory of marches through frost-plastered forests, of scouts who moved where the sun forgot to shine, of the quiet that follows a swift, decisive release. The name itself carries a whisper of lore—the Rampagers being a cohort famed for slipping through snow-stinged shadows, striking with precision before anyone knew they were there. This longbow, carved from the soft spruce the group favored for its lightness and shock-absorbent pulse, was said to be paired with the glacial knives of their smiths, a pair that spoke to each other through smoke and breath. When the bow is drawn, the air around the limbs seems to stiffen, and an almost liquid chill crawls along the shaft—an omen, some say, of the frost that follows the arrow. In practice, Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Chilling feels like a companion on a long, uncertain march. Its possible advantages aren’t merely about raw power; it’s about tempo and restraint. The bow encourages a hunter to pace their shots, to wait for the moment when a distant glimmer of movement becomes a life to save or a threat to banish. Each hit carries a trace of frost, a Chill that slows a target enough to buy a moment of breath for an ally, or to tilt a standoff in the archer’s favor. The texture of the wood seems to bite gently into the hand, giving feedback that helps the shooter time the release just as the target begins to turn, just as the wind shifts one note higher. Markets in the borderlands turn such keepsakes into stories you can trade for. I found this bow in a stall that bore the banner of Saddlebag Exchange, where caravan bells mingle with the clack of coin and the rustle of parchment. The dealer’s eyes gleamed as he weighed the price in copper and silver, not merely for the craftsmanship but for the tale it carried—the Rampager’s reputation, the frost magic that clung to the limbs, the quiet that followed in the wake of a well-placed shot. It wasn’t just a sale; it was a moment when the past stepped into the present, and a hunter’s future might be forged anew with a single, chilling pull of the string.