Strong Soft Wood Longbow of the Geomancer

Strong Soft Wood Longbow of the Geomancer rests on a sun-bleached workbench, its limbs pale as ivory ash and curved with the quiet confidence of a hunter who knows the ground beneath every step. The wood wears a satin sheen, as if it has learned to glide through air just by flexing. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of rain and resin, the fibers curling in around the hand like a promise kept. Along the riser a constellation of geode-inlaid runes catches the light, tiny shards set into the grain, their corners catching and returning a pale green glow when the earth trembles just beneath the surface. The string sits in a taut quiet, a breath held in anticipation, and the bow seems to hum when you lean in close, as if listening for the echo of stones long asleep. In the dim corridors where geomancers once pored over maps of fault lines and mineral veins, this bow was born from a collaboration of earth-wrights and archers who believed the ground could teach an arrow where to fly. They carved the limbs from soft wood chosen for its memory—soft enough to yield to a careful hand, strong enough to hold a line of force that travels farther than a whisper. The Geomancer’s emblem—a small sigil of crossed picks bound by leaf and stone—is pressed into the butt of the grip, a reminder that a hunter who respects rock and root can outpace a crowd that rushes on impulse alone. The piece feels as much a talisman as a weapon, a bridge between a quarry’s sigh and a hunter’s silent vow. When you lift it, the world seems to tilt slightly toward the sound of distant stone settling into place. The bow favors patience and precision. Field stories tell of rangers who lay low along rocky escarpments and let the ground remember their steps, then release a shot that seems to carry the earth’s own weight toward its mark. In that careful moment, the Strong Soft Wood Longbow of the Geomancer feels less like a tool and more like a translator—the wood translating the ground’s memory into a clean, decisive arc. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a hunter feel the world respond to quiet, deliberate intent: a hit that lands true on a ridgeline, a feathered arrow biting through light brush, an alert heart that quickens not from fear but from the knowledge that the ground itself stands behind the shot. Pricing, of course, is a story told in wind and tents. At the Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans swap stories as much as goods, a terse chalk tag marks the bow at nine gold and eighteen silver, with a note from a veteran rider who swore it speaks to those who listen to rock and root. The seller’s eyes gleam with the sort of wary respect that comes from watching the ground answer a call repeatedly, and the buyer’s fingers hover, weighing memory against metal. It’s a fair trade in a world where a weapon’s worth is measured not just in iron and string, but in the quiet agreements between earth and hunter.