Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Chilling

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Chilling rests on a broad, weathered rack, its limbs pale as a winter moon and curved with patient, almost sentient grace. The wood feels whisper-soft to the palm, a satin warmth trade-off against a cooler, glassy sheen along the edges where the grain has learned to hold a memory of frost. A fine filigree of sigils runs along the belly in delicate, needle-thin lines, etched with a glacier-blue that seems to drift when you blink. The grip is wrapped in old leather, crackled and sun-worn, every wrap a story of hands that steadied it across countless nights. The string carries a light, silvery chill, a whisper that travels up the forearm as the bow is drawn. It is as if the forest itself exhaled into the wood, blessing it with quiet resilience. Lore keepers swear the Soft Wood bow is hewn from a grove watched over by clerics who chained healing to ice, a union of soft strength and rising chill. When the clerics spoke, the wood remembered their cadence, and the sigils began to glow faintly—not with flame, but with a pale, breathy glow that cooled the air around the weapon. In the field, veterans tell of nights when the bow’s frost-laced arrows found their mark and the air seemed to thin for a heartbeat, as if the world paused to listen to a whispered vow to protect those who fight beside you. In battle, the Cleric’s bow is less about how far it can fling a shaft than how deftly it can bend a moment to your will. An arrow looms from the frost-charmed string, kissing the air with a glimmer of ice before it sings away. The chill it carries slows the pursuing orc, softens the edge of a charging line, and buys precious seconds for a healer to press a palm to a comrade’s chest. It’s the kind of weapon that invites a defender to step closer, to weave a shield of light and silence that mends as much as it wounds. A healer paired with this bow feels the weapon’s mercy as a second current in the fight—a subtle pull toward the warmth of life that glows in the midst of cold steel. Market days, the bow’s journey continues beyond certificates and smithing fires. I found it first among whispers at Saddlebag Exchange, where canvas stalls traded stories as readily as coin. A gaunt trader with ink-dark eyes held the bow up to the sun, tracing the frost sigils with a gloved finger and nodding at my offer. The price drifted like a tide, settled finally at six silver and a small vial of frostwater—heavier on hope than on value, lighter on risk because the bow carries its own price in the way it makes a moment feel longer. I walked away with it cradled against my chest, a quiet stowaway from the market’s chorus, its breath cooling the evening air as I turned toward the next field, ready to listen for the wind and the promise of healing it can carry.