Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Energy

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Energy rests across the table like a blade of quiet dawn, its pale wood catching the light with a warm, almost living glow. The grain runs long and smooth, a satin river that speaks of careful waiting and patient hands. The limbs flare slightly at the tips, not harshly carved but with a gardener’s tenderness, as if the wood itself remembers the breath of the forest before it became weapon and instrument alike. The string is taut and pale, with a whisper of resin at the knots, and the grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of rain and old prayers. Runes line the belly in a spiral of minor sigils, each carved so that the light plays along them like a congregation bending toward a glowkeeper. When you lift it, the bow feels light in your palm, a tool that asks for trust more than strength, as if the wood were listening for a purpose it already knows. Lore ties the Soft Wood to the quiet, patient orders that nurse the wounded rather than haul the world down with force. Legends say a cleric of the old healing houses bound a comet’s scrap of energy into this wood, coaxing warmth from chill, haste from fear, and aim from doubt. The energy it channels isn’t loud or overt; it is measured, almost conversational, like a mentor speaking softly to a stubborn student. The arrows it looses carry a pale blue afterglow that lingers on armor and skin, a faint reminder that healing and harm can occupy the same blade with different intentions. In the right hands, the Cleric’s Longbow becomes a bridge between sanctuary and storm, a means to steady a battalion’s spine when the frontline wavers and men forget the sound of a steady breath. In practice, the weapon makes a story of endurance. Its shots reward patience: a measured pull, a clean release, and a streaking arrow that seems to pull a thread of energy from the air into the target’s defenses. While others rain conditions and bursts, this bow leans into the quiet exchange between healer and protector. Wielders find themselves weaving shots that replenish allies’ vigor as they travel, turning a skirmish into a careful, almost ritual restoration. It isn’t the hardest-hitting tool in a warband’s arsenal, but it breathes sustainability into the fight, letting a team pace its courage through a drawn-out encounter, one well-placed feathered messenger at a time. The market scene is its own kind of storytelling, the kind that threads city lanes with the scent of resin and possibility. I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange one late afternoon, where traders called out prices in a currency of trust and rumor. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow of Energy hung among other relics, its value spoken softly by the crowd as much as the vendor’s ledger. The price reflected not just wood or craft but the potential to anchor hope in the middle of a siege, to give allies a moment to breathe and stand again. The discussion spiraled into tales of old clerics and younger recruits who traded stories as freely as arrows, deciding—together with the buyer—whether this bow would become a heartbeat in their next campaign.