Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Air

Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Air rests in my palm, its limbs pale as river-washed ash, the grain curling like a map of wind currents. The grip is sculpted, smooth as a river stone, the varnish faintly warm to touch, and along the belly run inlaid runes that glow a pale blue when the room is alive with heat. The string hums as it slides, a slender fiber of something almost living, tensed with the promise of flight. The nocks bear small feather crests, as if a bird once balanced there, and the whole thing carries a scent of resin and rain, of forests that have learned to listen. On the knoll of the grip, a sigil, a stylized gust, marks the bow as “Air” wrought — not merely a suffix, but a vow. Legends say this soft wood was grown in sheltered swamps where wind never wasted its whisper, then hardened by storms that braided lightning into grain. A hunter named Corin, who rode the edge between cloud and land, carved the first one, watching the horizon tilt with every shot. When he drew, the air answered—arcs of pale light stitched along the flight path, and arrows seemed to carry a little of the sky with them. It is said the bow’s voice becomes louder the moment the shaft leaves the string, a dry whisper that sounds almost like a gust rustling through reed beds. Those whispers linger on the wood, as if the tree remembers every breath it ever learned to catch. In the heat of skirmishes, the Strong Soft Wood Longbow of Air does more than pierce armor. It feels like weather that you can carry—wind acceleration that nudges arrows toward their mark, lighter reloads when you step between shadow and open air, and a gentle shove that can tilt a foe just enough to expose a vulnerable flank. Archers who learned to listen to the wind keep this bow close when they hunt the rune-etched valleys or push through windy passes. Its arrows trail with a thread of cold air, sometimes knocking back light troops, sometimes bending the line of a volley to catch several foes in a single gust. Prices drift through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where old captains and apprentices barter stories as much as steel. A good specimen pulls a respectful price, often measured in silver more than gold; on Saddlebag Exchange, listings commonly hover around 12 to 20 silver, depending on the finish and the memory etched into the wood. A buyer tucked the bow away, promising to test its harmonies with the next tide, while the seller spoke of storms, harmony, and the comfort of a companion that never tires. In the end, the bow is more than weapon and tool; it’s a promise—a conduit for wind and will, a link between the forest’s memory and the rider’s courage, a story that rides with every arrow into the open world.