Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Nullification

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Nullification gleams with a pale, milky grain, the soft wood almost velvet to the touch, as if it remembers whispered prayers before a shot is ever loosed. The limbs bend with a quiet, almost unhurried resilience, and the bowstring—twisted from horsehair and old oath—tugs with a subtle sigh when drawn. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that has seen many campaigns, its edges softened by years of hands seeking calm before a storm. A slim sigil of silver runs along the elbow join, catching light like a reminder that nothing here is merely timber and cord, but a conduit for intention. On the riser, a miniature rune is carved, not flashy, but precise, a compass pointing toward the bow’s true vocation: nullifying what stands in the way of a righteous shot. The texture tells a story as you cradle it: the wood’s surface is almost dusted with the scent of resin and candle wax, a reminder that this weapon was bound to prayers as surely as to a hunter’s posture. When you sweep your fingers along the grain, it responds with a gentle warmth, a tactile promise that the weapon will bend to care as well as will. It carries a rumor of lore, too—the clerics who tempered its sap with chants to quiet the wards that shield the unworthy, the way a careful word can soften a quarrel before it begins. Some say the wood was coaxed from a grove blessed by a forgotten order, a place where magic was measured and named, not feared; others insist the nullification sigil was etched after a night of trials, when a single shot could decide a village’s fate. In the world of combat, the bow’s gift feels almost like listening to a whispered veto. When drawn, the arrow carries a soft, current-like echo of anti-magic, as if the air itself holds its breath just long enough for a target’s guard to falter. On impact, the arrow doesn’t merely pierce armor or blossom into a clean kill; it dampens the glow of magic around the target, nudging aside one of their active boons and leaving a narrow window for allied spells to cut through. It’s not flashy or brute-force—it’s a surgical tool, elevating timing and trust among teammates. Rangers find it a trusted ally on patrols where wards and veils hang heavy, clerics wield it when a shrine’s sanctity must be preserved against corrupting rite-work, and healers rely on it to carve a moment of vulnerability into the most stubborn phantoms of power. In siege and skirmish alike, the bow functions as a hinge—between discipline and chance, between a whispered oath and the noise of battle. I learned this not in a catalog but wandering the market corridors of the Saddlebag Exchange, where relics change hands with stories attached to every knot in the leather. A trader pressed his palm to the bow’s grip, eyes bright, and spoke of it as one would speak of a long-kept vow: rare, revered, and as temperamental as any master. He hinted that the price shifts with the moon’s favor and the season’s mood, a reminder that such a weapon does not belong to a single owner but to a lineage of guardians who learned to listen to what magic refuses to say. Now, as I sling it over my shoulder and step back into the crowd, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow of Nullification feels like more than a weapon. It is a restraint on chaos, a quiet agreement between wood, string, and will, a companion in a world where silence can be just as decisive as a perfect strike.