Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Blood

Berserker's Soft Wood Longbow of Blood rests on the rough timber of a hunter's table, its limbs pale as dew-soaked ash and springy to the touch, the grain curling like a whispered spine along its length. The grip is wrapped in leather that’s the color of dried berry ink, frayed at the edges where hands have learned the bow’s weight by heart. The bowstring, pale and taut, hums with a quiet warmth, as if the soft wood breathes in time with the archer who wields it. Along the belly and back run etched runes—small, deliberate, almost shy—glimmering faintly with a resin’s red varnish, a tongue of omen whispered by masters who swore the bow remembers its last true owner. The name itself evokes a storming vow: Berserker, brutal and unyielding, bound to a weapon that yields more speed than ponderous mass, more mercy than bloodless precision. It is the kind of bow that looks innocent enough in daylight, yet glows with a crimson signature under firelight, as though the forest itself is watching the archer’s aim. In the field, the Soft Wood’s forgiving heft makes it feel like an extension of the archer’s own arm, a partner that understands the heartbeat before the arrow leaves the string. The wood’s natural elasticity smooths the snap of release, smoothing out the tremor of nerves into a clean, piercing flight. When you notch a shaft, the bow seems to lean closer, listening for the briefest telltale sigh of wind before the arrow splits the space between you and your target. There is lore here, too, about a berserker who carved this stave from a tree haunted by crimson winds, trading rage for discipline when the first blood of the battle cooled on the battlefield’s edge. The weapon learned that patience can be as deadly as fury, and in that quiet fusion of impulse and restraint, a hunter finds their true pace. Its role in the world isn’t only ceremonial—there is real, pragmatic heft behind this longbow. It pairs with marksmanship that favors rapid, fluid lines of fire, rewarding the archer who can blend speed with exacting aim. A volley from this bow feels like a chorus of swift breaths, each shot a note that lands with crisp certainty. In skirmishes, it invites a roaming style: quick dashes, measured pauses, and a rhythm that keeps enemies guessing. The “Blood” in its name is not merely dye but a history, a reminder that a hunter’s courage is earned through close calls and the will to drive back the tide of conflict with clean, honest shots. Shopping at the weekend market, the tale of the bow travels on the lips of traders as well as travelers. Saddlebag Exchange becomes the thread through which value and memory flow, the kind of place where a rust-colored banner and a stack of coin pouches say more than a tag ever could. The bow’s price winds through those conversations, sometimes as a hard figure, sometimes as a souvenir of a hard-won trade. I heard it mentioned there with the same reverence as any old oath: a weapon that won’t surrender its user and a journey that won’t surrender the weapon. By dusk, it’s all part of one broader story—the soft wood bearing the weight of history, the hunter walking forward with a weapon that seems to remember every shot, every oath, and every road it’s ever traveled.