Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Air

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Air rests on a vendor's table, its limbs pale and finely grained, the texture catching light like a quiet tidepool. The bowstring, linen-thin and stubborn, sits taut as if waiting for a call. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by years of patrols and sketches etched by hands that learned to read wind. A wind-sculpted sigil circles the grip, and copper inlays along the limbs glint when a stray sunbeam lands on them. The wood carries a soft sheen, as if it absorbed the breath of summer storms, and the ends taper into slender tips that seem almost eager to slice through air. In the world’s stories, soft wood is prized for its resilience and flexibility—the kind that lets an arrow travel farther when the archer is in harmony with the breeze. The Air suffix hints at speed and breath, as though the weapon has learned to borrow the currents for its rider. Some say a rampager smith forged it for scouts who would ride the edge of a storm, firing as the wind rose and guiding the retreating ranks with a flick of weather-worn wood. Whether true or rumor, the bow has become part of the lore you carry when the road grows uncertain. On a damp dawn, the bow feels almost alive in your hands. The texture of the soft wood is a quiet reminder that patience matters as much as aim. The central notch on the string lines up with your eye, and the wind-sigil under the grip echoes with every breath you take, as if the bow itself is listening for orders. An arrow drawn from your quiver seems to leap when you release, cutting a line through the morning mist, and the “air” in its name feels like a small gust guiding the shaft to its mark. The rampage through a canyon is tempered by this bow, for its light weight belies its reach. It isn’t the loudest weapon in a camp, but the most faithful; it teaches you to wait for the right moment, to let the wind cooperate rather than force the shot. It also pays attention to market winds. Traders speak in hushed tones of where to obtain a bow like this, and Saddlebag Exchange is often the weather vein they watch—their voices soft with talk of consignments, of barter, and of the fickle price of rare wood and wind-charmed metal. If you listen closely, you’ll hear a whisper as you string it, a promise that this longbow is more than wood and sinew: a companion that understands that power moves with the air, that precision is born from patience, and that every hunt is a small chapter in a larger story the world keeps on telling, again and again. In quiet moments, I’ve watched it hang over a doorway, catching wind from a passing caravan, reminding kin and strangers alike that good steel and patient wood endure, long after the battle ends for good.