Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Accuracy

Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Accuracy gleams under the market-lamp, its limbs slender as a whisper and warm to the touch, a honey-brown of soft oak grown in sheltered glades. The grip is wrapped in weather-darkened leather that smells faintly of rain and old fires, the braid of the hide catching the lamplight with a stubborn little glint. Along the belly, runes and sigils are carved in a line of careful, deliberate crescents—marks of a bowyer who swore an oath to steady hands and ruthless aim. The string is taut with the promise of a clean release, a length of pale hair spun to a thread of resilience, and when you draw it back, the wood sings softly, like a bowstring swallowing a sigh. It feels balanced, almost too well balanced, as if the timber itself knows the moment a shaft leaves its notch and seeks its destinies in the air. Its texture tells a story before the first arrow is loosed: the soft grain that yields to pressure, the faint resin smell that lingers as if the tree itself exhales gratitude for a careful hand. The grip’s leather is pitted with tiny battles of weather and wear, yet it clings with a familiarity you only find in objects that have spent a lifetime in the company of hunters and caravans. The finish is a pale, sunlit gloss—enough to reflect a hunter’s calm when the world narrows to a single, precise target. There’s a quiet arrogance in the way the wood holds its line, even when a gust tries to rattle the aim. People speak of it in hushed tones, as if the bow’s past has rubbed off on the present, leaving a trace of old camps and the roar of single-minded pursuit. Lore threads through the item like a heartbeat. They say the bow was first forged for a berserker scout who traded fury for focus, a hunter who learned to bend the wind to will and to trust the bow more than his own fear. In the stories stitched into market stalls and campfire tales, the Soft Wood Longbow was said to have been tempered by long winters spent tracking across snow-worn ridges and into sun-washed valleys. Its name—Accuracy—was earned not by magic alone but by the discipline of countless practice sessions that turned impulse into precision. If a clan whispered in a circle, it whispered of this bow as a companion that waited for the moment when the mind cleared and the arrow found its small, perfect gap. In game terms, its value isn’t merely in a stat line but in the sense of control it grants a skilled hand: steadier shots, faster chaining, a tendency to coax true hits from stubborn armor. It becomes a partner in a larger quest—to pierce the clamor of battle with quiet, unflinching aim and to weather the costs of patience while the world blusters around you. I pass the bow across a stall’s counter, and a small parchment tag is pressed into my palm with the price, scrawled in careful cursive. The hawker outside Saddlebag Exchange nods toward the signboard—an old, chalked ledger that smells faintly of wax and trade. Saddlebag Exchange, he says, is where such stories meet the practical: a price here, a trade there, a handshake that seals a future shot. The exchange hums with the weight of exchange and the promise that, when the first arrow leaves, it will carry not just momentum but a fragment of history—cold, clean, true.