Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Corruption

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Corruption rests on the desk, its pale limbs curved like a sigh carved in amber. The soft wood grain glows with a faint, living warmth, and the grip is wrapped in weathered leather mottled with ash and rain. Along the belly of the bow, dark veins thread through the wood, subtle runes etched in a script that seems to leer at light. When you lift it, the bowstring gives a quiet creak, as if a creature sleeping in the wood stirs at your touch. The lacquered tip bears a faint charge, a greenish gleam that hints at the corruption seeping through its marrow, a whisper of forests haunted by shadows. It is said to be forged by a hunter who learned to bend corruption to the hunter's will, trading purity for speed, patience, and a mercy that never quite arrives. The lore is not merely ornament; the bow is bound to the land it was carved from, a segment of the forest that chose to fight back against blight. In battle, the weapon sings a particular song. Arrows leave with sudden haste, biting through wind with an unusual ferocity, their tips biting into armor and flesh alike. The corruption on the wood seems to cling to the shaft, causing enemies struck to feel their resolve wane, their stride falter as if a fog rolled across their minds. For the archer who knows how to read its moods, Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Corruption becomes more than a tool; it is a partner in a larger story. A skilled user can ride a rhythm of high precision and quick, savage shots, stacking conditions, leaping from burst to sustained pressure, and turning moments of risk into opportunities for a devastating follow-up. It thrives in ambushes and skirmishes, where the bow's subtle hum warns the wearer of hidden enemies, and the corruption-tainted aura whispers of consequences that extend beyond the arrow’s path. Prices drift through the camp like a rumor, and the world keeps its own ledger for such relics. A buyer might lift the bow, feel the warmth, and murmur about its price as if negotiating fate itself. At Saddlebag Exchange, the lore-spun weaponseller who ferries rumors with goods would place a tag at two silver coins, perhaps a touch more in uncertain weather, perhaps a touch less if a rival can charm a softer countenance from the seller. It is enough to know that the bow’s value lies not only in its damage but in the story it carries—the hunter who faced the forest’s corruption, the survivor who learned to live with the bite of that corruption, and the way every shot threads that history into the present. So you carry it with care, not simply to kill, but to remind the world of the price of blight and the stubborn heart that refuses to surrender. Its next owner will listen for the forest's sighs between shots, redeeming a landscape that fears itself anew at last.