Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow

The Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow gleams under lamp-light, its pale-ash limbs curved like a held breath, the grain so fine you can almost hear the forest sigh with every flex. The string, a taut thread of night-silk, sits evenly across the notch, and the grip wears a soft patina, warmed by countless hands guided toward mercy and defense. Carvings along the riser catch the light—a tiny, open-palm emblem of a monk’s blessing, etched in slow, deliberate strokes. The finish is satin; the wood carries a faint scent of beeswax and resin, as if it had slept beneath pine needles before being raised for battle. It feels alive in the hand, an instrument formed not just for aim but for intention, a quiet reminder that power here is tempered by care. To those who carry it, the bow is more than wood and string; it is a conduit between survival and sanctuary. Its soft grain yields a draw that returns with a gentler snap, letting an archer regain their aim after a shot without losing ground in the clash around them. When an arrow arcs toward a target, a pale glow follows the shaft, a whisper of holy energy that flickers in the corner of the eye—more reassurance than menace, more memory than ruin. The lore says clerics and woodsmen worked in tandem to temper the bow: priests blessing each limb, carpenters tuning the wood to remember quiet prayers as well as loud alarms. Pilgrims, scouts, and caravan guards alike trusted its balance, believing the weapon carried the rhythm of footfalls across distant temples and watchtowers. In the field, its significance unfolds like a story passed from campfire to campfire. A healer-ward sweeps their gaze across the line and trusts the bow to keep pace with a shifting tempo—shots that break the momentum of an advancing foe, followed by a rapid, almost reluctant, second shot that buys the time healing hands need to reach the wounded. The Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow does not shout; it aligns, it nudges the fight toward caution and precision. Players who favor a hybrid approach—where protection and puncture work in concert—note how the weapon’s lighter draw invites quicker follow-ups, how its holy sheen seems to sharpen not just aim but resolve. In stories told around campfires, it’s said the bow remembers those it saves as much as those it silences, turning every quarry into a quiet advocate for mercy. Market whispers drift through the air as well, braided with dust and travel-worn leather. At Saddlebag Exchange, a place where relics and renown mingle with rumor, the Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow finds its way between merchants who know the weight of a good bow and the trust of a patient buyer. It’s the kind of trade that glides on more than coin—an exchange of histories, of the hands that held it, of the roads they walked. A fair deal might land it in the hands of a ranger who has walked a hundred nights to keep a village safe, or in a traveler’s pack that hopes to see mercy survive another dawn. Either way, the bow remains a quiet beacon, a reminder that strength can be tempered by care, and that even in war, a single well-placed shot can carry a glimmer of salvation into the long gray hours before sunrise.