Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Serpent Slaying

Rampager's Soft Wood Longbow of Serpent Slaying rests on a weathered wagon rail, its limbs a pale, honeyed wood that glows softly in lamplight. The grain runs like a map of small rivers, and the bow’s surface bears the faint sheen of beeswax, rubbed into every crease to keep the sap from seeping through the years. Carved serpents coil along the grip and along the limb tips, their scales etched so finely that they catch the flicker of firelight and seem almost alive. A strap of tanned leather wraps the center, worn smooth by countless hands, while a thin line of copper inlay traces the bow’s spine, catching the eye with a patient, elemental gleam. The string—tight and taut as a drawn breath—sings faintly when the bow is flexed, a crisp note that carries in the quiet like a whispered oath. Its haft bears a faded sigil, a ring of runners and thorned leaves, hinting at a provenance tied to forest outposts and caravans that learned to trust serpents as much for danger as for lore. The soft wood itself feels warmer than it looks, a living thing that seems to remember rain and field sun. Whispered lore says it was hewn by a hunter who earned the old forests’ blessing, then tempered by a guild of rangers who swore to defend travelers from venom and treachery. The Serpent Slaying epithet, hammered into the grip guard and etched along the string nock, is not mere bravado but a pledge: a weapon bent toward countering the silent threat that coils in river bends and hidden coves. When a serpent has learned the lay of a road, this bow answers with a measured, mercifully swift response, its arrows slipping through scale and hide with a hunter’s patience. In the field, its significance unfolds like a story unfolding on a map. The Rampager’s reputation—the name whispered among scouts and smiths—speaks to power and precision, a combination that makes this longbow a favorite for those who navigate skirmish lines or stand sentinel over a caravan’s wheels. The weapon rewards careful aim and swift repositioning, turning each drawn breath into a sharper bite. Its signature approach is simple: strike true, keep distance, exploit openings, and let the serpent-slaying edge do the rest. Against serpent kin—thick-scaled hunters of the delta, venom-doused ambushers in reed beds—the bow’s damage is felt as a quiet, decisive counterpunch that leaves little room for error. Even the market has a chance to tell its tale. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders unfold map-marked cloths and trade stories as much as coin, a leather-clad dealer lays out a price in small, clinking coins and chain-soft bills. The bow’s value seems to hover somewhere between road-worn practicality and heritage, the kind of price that invites a caravan’s careful negotiation rather than a hurried sale. The vendor’s chalk marks drift in the morning light, a reminder that this weapon isn’t merely a tool but a milestone in a journey—one that will ride on to the next crossing, where it will again answer the call of rustling reeds and the careful, patient hunt.