Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Force

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Force rests in the palm like a broken wind, its limbs pale as birch and softly curved, a satin sheen catching the light as if the wood itself was listening. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with small black threads, and the bowstring bears the faint aroma of pine sap and resin. Carved runes run along the core, not harsh glyphs but winding rivers of rune-lore that speak of patience, forests, and the old pacts between hunter and prey. The label Velvet in its woodgrain whispers of fame earned in ambush and chase, a weapon named for those who walk at the edge of reason and risk. To hold it is to feel a duty placed in wood: the Soft Wood, light as a reed but steady as a bow of fate, forgiving to the wrist yet unyielding to weakness. The Rampager's lineage is etched into the grain—stories of a hunter who tracked marauders through moonlit groves, of a pact made with a dryad of the basin, and of a vow to never waste a shaft. The Force in its inscription isn’t merely a stat; it is a pulse, a channel for kinetic memory. When you nock an arrow, the weapon hums, as if the forest itself exhale s and lends you its momentum. A veteran marksman swears that the bow’s soft wood sings at the moment of release, a quiet note that travels through armor and into the heart. In practice, the bow suits a stealthy, patient style: aim, breathe, wait for the glint of light on chain and plate, then release a precise shaft that slices through the gap between breaths. It balances speed and control—fast enough for a quick recon shot, yet steady enough to cradle a careful, measured volley. The Force charge adds a kind of training wheel for those who want their arrows to bite deeper, to crack a shield, to push a foe off balance just long enough for a follow-up strike. For a veteran party, it’s the quiet backbone of a front-line duel, where a single well-timed shot softens a foe enough for a teammate to capitalize. Markets and memory mingle as traders talk of its price. In the Saddlebag Exchange, where crates of brine and bundles of bark pass from hand to hand, the bow’s value shifts with mood and rumor. A tale grows about one that sold for a generous handful of coin plus a tangle of emerald tusks during a festival, and another that found a home in a young ranger’s camp for a bargain that felt almost charitable. The bow becomes more than wood and string; it becomes a signal flare of a world where risk and care travel together, where gear tells a story that outlives the hero who wields it. As dusk settles over harbor, the longbow rests again on a peg, its force waiting for the next dawn, when a new hunter will listen to its whisper and begin again.