Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow rests on a wooden pedestal, its limbs carved from a pale ash that glows faintly with a honeyed tone. The texture is velvety to the fingertip, the grain curling like water-worn sediment, and the whole thing feels as if it were grown rather than made—soft wood, careful bending, a flex that promises endurance. Along the riser run tiny inlays of bone-white ivory, etched with temple sigils that promise steadiness, calm, and mercy in the heat of battle. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, smooth from decades of handling, the edge of the grip scalloped to fit a hand that knows both prayer and war. When you nudge the string, a quiet sigh escapes the bow. The draw is forgiving, the limbs appear to bend with a pliant certainty, and the weapon sits cleanly on the forearm, ready to harbour a clean, quiet release. It is not a weapon of brute force but of precise intent—the kind of bow that a cleric or a trusted hunter might use to target the heart of a threat without endangering the wounded or the bystanders clustered behind a ruined wall. Legends say the inlays hold the memory of a venerable healer who blessed every groove, every notch, so that the shot might carry healing focus as well as kinetic force, a whisper of light that travels through cord and string to the arrowhead. In the field, its significance comes to life in a dozen small stories. A healer marches at the flank of a skittish caravan, the Soft Wood Longbow in her hand keeping a wary rhythm as scouts evaluate the road ahead. One shot, steady and true, finds the glimmer of a marauder’s shoulder—enough to slow a charge and grant the wounded time to fade behind cover. The bow’s forgiving draw invites novices to learn the discipline of distance and timing; its quiet energy suits the quiet hours between dawn and the first bell. Market days color the tale as well. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a trader sways the bow in his palm, promising not just wood and sinew but a lineage of mercy stitched into its grain. He offers it for a price that makes a smile tug at the corners of the buyer’s lips—a small handful of silver, a reward for skill and restraint more than for brute power. The exchange is a maze of crates and pennants, where a cleric might swap stories as easily as arrows, and where such a longbow can pass from one hand to another, becoming part of a larger history of rescues and quiet courage. So the Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow remains: a trusted companion, a tool for healing in the language of war, and a reminder that mercy can travel as far as a spear can fly. Sometimes a clerk pockets it for a journey, trusting that the bow’s patient mercy will keep them safe. When the road grows loud again, the wood remembers and returns the arrow’s song.