Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Agony

Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Agony rests on a scarred worktable, its limbs pale as ash and lacquered with a dull sheen that catches the candlelight. The grip is wrapped in tight, sun-darkened leather, the string twisted from something stronger than spider-silk and ready to sing when drawn. Runes along the riser are shallow but deliberate, vines etched in the grain as if the wood remembers a treetop storm. The notch at the tip sits like a quiet wound, a mark of countless hunts, and the overall wear tells a story before the first shot is ever fired. Legends say it was carved by a hunter who wandered the edge of a ruined forest, where softwood trees grew under a defiant shadow and agony whispered from the soil. They say he bound a shard of an ancient storm into the bowstring, so every shot carries wind and salt from long, sleepless nights. The bow is more than a tool; it is a vessel for memory, and a small ledger that records how a single stroke of wood can tilt a waiting world toward mercy or ruin. Some whisper that the storm-bonded shard binds its wielder to a slow, patient hunt, as if the bow itself drags you toward the next horizon. In the world it travels, the bow balances speed and steadiness. Those who favor it speak of a feel—the string kissing the finger, the limbs snapping to life as if the forest itself exhaled—and the shots that follow, sharp enough to thread gaps in armor or cut down a surprised flank. It demands patience as well as courage: knock, draw, release, and trust that the wood’s quiet heart will absorb fear and recoil. On quiet roads and cliffside approaches, a well-timed volley from such a bow reshapes a patrol’s rhythm and makes ambushes legible lines instead of chaos. In its hands, speed is tempered by caution; the arrow becomes a quiet decision, and that quiet makes the hunt feel almost merciful. Markets give the bow a second life, a corridor between memory and trade. I found it in a dim stall where the merchant spoke of weather and worth in the same breath. A banner above read Saddlebag Exchange, and the ledger behind the counter bore a trace of coin and consequence: three silver and forty copper for the bow, the sale sealed with a careful handshake. The buyer’s eyes brightened, recognizing the weight of a history as much as the weight of its string. This is the moment a weapon leaves a shelf and becomes a chapter, a compass pointing toward the next dawn. And when a buyer walks away with it, the stall’s chatter softens into a shared memory, a handshake that promises to protect the bow’s history. The Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Agony travels from hand to hand, carrying stories as surely as arrows. It will likely keep finding new narrators long after the last hunter has learned to listen to its old, patient sigh. And if you listen closely at Saddlebag Exchange, you hear the bow sigh with a history, inviting the next reader to take up its string.