Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow rests on the table, its limbs pale as dawn-ash and curved with a patient, ritual grace. The grain runs in fine, river-smooth lines, and a thin lacquer catches the light like a whisper of prayer. The grip is wrapped in soft, well-worn leather, cool to the touch and seasoned from years of careful handling. A tiny sigil, burned into the riser, glints when the room holds its breath, a reminder of the order that once guarded the grove from which the wood came. The bow's tail sighs with a gentle tremor when it’s drawn, as if the wood remembers every arrow it has carried and every voice that asked it to protect. In days of scarcity and sudden skirmish, it is said this weapon takes a caretaker’s hand more easily than a hunter’s. Clerics who took up bowcraft discovered that the light wood lends a forgiving draw, a springy return that rewards measured, intentional shots rather than reckless flinging. Its arrows seem to find their mark with a patient patience, as though the bow itself respects the oath of service that gave it life. Healers who carry it into ruinous streets speak of it almost as a partner: when a comrade’s breath grows shallow, a careful shot can buy the moments needed to steady the lost, to lay on a shield, to whisper a blessing that glints like blessed heat along steel. The lore holds that this wood remembers prayers spoken at dawn and a vow spoken at dusk, and that the bow’s quiet strength is only an echo of those vows coming back to the drawn string. The instrument’s usefulness stretches beyond legend. In the field it balances range with restraint, allowing a practiced hand to pause between shots and let a warding hymn slip through the feint of battle. It doesn’t demand the loud, roaring drama of more brutal weapons; instead it invites restraint, positioning, and timing—the hallmarks of a story that moves through corridors, not a battlefield sprint. The clergy-archer, as some elders insist, becomes a watcher who heals with one measured arrow while lifting the burdens of those who fight beside them. Market mornings bring a different sort of chorus. A stall at Saddlebag Exchange hums with the clink of coins and the hushed bargaining of travelers who know that a bow like this is a rare thing—priced not for its bluster but for the quiet balance it offers. The trader’s fingers brush the grip, and I hear him adjust the tag as if aligning a prayer’s cadence. He offers it with a nod toward a future where both shield and arrow share the same breath, where the cleric-artist can walk the road and still keep faith with the grove that grew this soft wood. When I close my palm around its grip, the world narrows to the whisper of string and the glow of memory—the kind of memory that threads together legend, craft, and a long road home. Memory endures.