Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Peril

The Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Peril sits in a quiet corner of the market stall, its limbs pale as dawn-sanded ivory and smooth to the touch. The wood carries a soft grain that breathes under the palm, a warmth that steadies the hand. Carved along the riser are sigils of a forgotten chapel: entwined vines, a small lamp, and the shallow imprint of a cross-like emblem that travelers say stands for mercy more than conquest. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched by hands whose patience outlived their fears, and a single copper thread catches the light where the lacquer glints. When you lift it, the bow feels almost alive, a creature of quiet intent rather than show. The string springs with a measured ease, and the draw smooths the breath rather than demanding it. The shaft rests along a natural balance point, as if the wood itself carries a memory of battles fought in the rain and prayers whispered over campfires. The 'Peril' in its name is not a boast but a warning—a blessing that grows sharp when danger thickens, as if the bow could sense a belief in its wielder and respond with steadier aim and clearer mind. In the world where it travels, the Cleric's Soft Wood longs for stories as much as targets. Legends say a cleric-woodworker carved it from a tree spared by a plague of blight—soft, forgiving wood that keeps the archer honest, never letting the shot drift on impatience. Some say the sigils were etched at night in a churchyard, when whispers of mercy rode the wind and the lamp flickered against the dark. The effect in the field is practical as well as poetic: the bow’s lightness invites long excursions, the edge of its hit lands true at mid-range, and the carved signets seem to guide the eye toward the path between branches and where the weak points lie in armor and hide. Market chatter makes the bow feel part of a larger weather system: the way prices dip after festival crowds, the way a few worn coins buy a promise of reliability. Dealers in Saddlebag Exchange trade stories along with steel and sinew, and a keen-eyed buyer learns to read the wood like a ledger—age, provenance, the stiffness of the sinew, the tiny impressions that tell of journeys endured. A hunter might seek a bargain for expeditions into ruined groves, while a monk-guardian would value its temperate draw during long vigils. The price, spoken in hushed tones, becomes a map of trust between seller and seeker, a reminder that value is as much about the road it has walked as the distance it can still cover. Thus the Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Peril leaves the stall with a traveler in tow, not sold but entrusted. It belongs to stories that stretch beyond road, to spaces where mercy and danger brush shoulders, where a well-placed shot can tip the balance in favor of hope that lingers in the trees.