Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow rests on the weathered counter, its limbs pale and patient, the grain curling like quiet rivers in a map of old wood and old prayers. The finish catches the light with a honeyed gloss, and the soft wood itself—smooth to the touch, almost velvety—seems to breathe with the room’s dusk-charred air. The grip is swaddled in worn leather, each wrap a reassurance against the tremor of a long day’s draw, and the string, taut as a whisper, holds a memory of hundreds of arrows loosed in a shrine’s half-dark. A faint sigil runs along the riser, a healer’s sun woven in vines, shallow enough to be a memory you can feel more than read, as if the bow has learned mercy by quiet repetition rather than rote ceremony. I first met it in a corner stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders thread through aisles of lanterns and tarps, singing prices into the glow of oil lamps. The vendor spoke of it as if it carried a patient history in its fibers: a weapon that belonged to a cleric-turned-woodsman who tended pilgrims and defended them with the same care he showed kindling to the forest’s secret creatures. The bow’s soft wood, he claimed, gives a draw that’s forgiving, a spring that returns with a sigh rather than a snap, a trait beloved by rangers who must shelter a convoy’s trust as surely as its flank. The texture—warm, almost living under the palm—invited you to trust its voice before any of its numbers did. In the world where such gear travels, this bow is not merely a tool but a shared vow folded into a single, long arc. Its arrows carry more than the blunt truth of steel; they feel a patient mercy, a reminder that protection can be as quiet as a whispered prayer. Players who lean into the Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow discover a role that blends defense with precision: shots landed to shield a weary ally, arrows that seem to linger in the air, offering a brief sanctuary against the chaos of skirmish and storm. It’s said the sigil on the riser channels the bow’s history—every strike brightening the space around an injured friend, every miss tempered by the memory of a healing rite performed under a star-washed canopy. In practice, it invites a style that favors careful timing, positioning, and a sense that every arrow is a page turned in a broader witness to mercy in motion. The price, when I watched the deal unfold, was more than silver. The trader at Saddlebag Exchange chewed thoughtfully, weighing stories as much as coins, trading not just for metal but for the promise of continued trust: a tale passed from one keeper to another, a blessing earned, a traveler’s debt repaid with a hunter’s patience. And so, the Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow changes hands where trust is currency, where the day’s last light glows through a canopy and the world feels just a measure safer because someone chose to draw and protect, one long, patient breath at a time.