Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Air

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Air gleams with pale sapwood, its limbs curved like a quiet sigh, the grain running in wind-twisted whorls that catch the light as if the wood itself holds a breeze. The limbs are sanded smooth, edges dulled by countless seasons on the road, yet a cool grain rune runs along the grip, whispering of the old wind-scribes who first bound the bow to a hunter's will. The string, braided from spider silk and horsehair, sings when drawn, and the nocks are carved with delicate gust motifs that flare softly when a shot is loosed, as if a tiny gale has been tethered to the string. The wood bears a faint map of rain and sun, a natural patina that tells of rainstorms survived and sunlit hunts, and a seam along the belly glints with a silver thread—a relic of a lightning-blessed smith who traded sparks for trust. In combat, it feels almost featherweight, yet when you draw, the air around the arrow hums with promise. The Rampager's prefix is a hunter's creed—power, precision, and ferocity bound into a single bow—while the suffix of Air lends a breath of speed to the flight. Arrows slice rivers of wind toward distant silhouettes, and quick reloads seem less a discipline and more a conversation with the breeze. It favors patience as much as gesture: nailing a distant scout or turning a retreat into a precise, wind-guided volley. On skirmish grounds, the bow's light touch keeps you from sweating the weight, letting you slip between shadows, align your breaths, and release a stream of arrows that feel as if they ride a current formed by ancient tempests. The weapon's place in the wider story of the world is not simply as a tool but as a piece of weathered memory. Caravans once traded this bow between scouts who believed the sky could guide a hunter's hand, and field journals tell of a border outpost saved by a single flawless shot fired at the edge of a wind-blown dusk. Those who wield it speak of conversations with the wind—the way it answers when you listen, and how the soft wood seems to remember every path a raindrop carved across the surface. When I passed through the market, the Saddlebag Exchange was buzzing with traders debating its worth—their fingers tracing the grain, their voices shading the price with stories of storms and long-range ambushes—yet the bow stood as a quiet test of nerve and skill, a thing sought not merely for its power but for its fidelity to the world’s weathered spirit. A buyer might part with coins or trade rare fabrics; either way, the exchange is a rite of passage for a weapon that seeks a reason to sing with the wind.