Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Restoration

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Restoration rests on the table, its limbs pale as dawn-lit birch and curved with the quiet confidence of a practiced healer. The wood carries a velvet satin sheen, as if the grain itself were a living map of the forest’s breath. Delicate runes are inlaid along the belly in a pale moss-green, not crudely carved but softly etched, like dew tracing the edges of a leaf. The grip is wrapped in aged leather, darkened by travel and rain, and the string—strong as a vow—sings faintly when the bow is drawn, a sound not unlike a distant flute played to ease a patient’s pain. A small sigil, a droplet on a shield, is carved near the nock, a reminder that this weapon hunts not to wound needlessly but to mend what is broken. Holding it, you notice the texture of the wood itself, its pores micro-coursing with a serenity that suggests the tree’s last wish was to become cure rather than weapon. The coating catches the lamp light and seems to glow with a pale inner light when the bow is properly braced, as if the wood remembers the rain that nourished it and the hands that once prayed over it. The longbow’s silhouette is unassuming at a glance, yet there is a quiet authority to its lines, a sense that the weapon belongs to someone who has learned to hold back as much as to strike, who understands that mercy might be a more effective arrow than force. In the stories whispered by caravans and innkeepers, this bow is said to be carved by a cleric whose faith lay in restoration—the slow, patient art of mending the body and soothing the hurt within a town's bones. The sigil of the droplet invokes the ancient belief that even the fiercest battle leaves room for renewal, that a single healing touch can turn despair into resolve. When the bow is drawn, the air around it seems to soften; when a shot breaks the air, a faint swell of restorative energy follows the arrow, mending minor wounds and easing fatigue as it passes through allies in its wake. It does not shout its power, but those who feel its touch know they have not been abandoned to the pain of the moment. Its usefulness stretches beyond the battlefield’s edge. Scouts who move through rain-soaked forests find it invaluable for keeping a small party steady—an arrow to clear a path, a glow of healing carried to a wounded companion, and the quiet assurance that help is near. It is the kind of weapon that belongs in a larger story—a healer’s oath echoed in a hunter’s hand, a village’s quiet vow to endure. The price at Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants and wanderers trade under canvas and sky, reflects its rarity and its lore. I watched a pair of traders barter, their voices low, trading tales as they did coins. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow of Restoration lingered in the air between them, finally settling at just under four gold, with a promise of a vial of tincture and a touch of goodwill tossed in as a courtesy. It was a fair exchange, a compromise born not of greed but of belief: that this bow would walk again into a world where healing matters as much as heroism. And so it travels—through palm-dusted streets, along caravans that know the road by the seasons, carried by hands that have learned to carry others. The bow remains, a quiet palimpsest of mercy, ready to turn a moment of pain into a chance for renewal.