Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Energy

Cleric's Soft Wood Longbow of Energy rests in the crook of my arm, its soft wood pale as dawn-sicked ash, cradled with a patience that feels almost ceremonial. The limbs lean with a gentle, flexible grace, as if they’ve learned to bend without snapping under the weight of future storms. The grip is wrapped in linen that’s dulled to a warm, sun-bleached tan, smooth to the touch, like a well-loved shovel handle after years of loyal service. Along the bow’s belly run delicate sigils— lilies intertwined with compass roses—carved deeply enough to catch the light but worn from hands that have traced them more often than they’ve spoken them aloud. A blue-green glow threads through the grain, a soft halo that breathes with the weapon, not loud enough to shout, but enough to remind you that energy hums through this wood the way wind hums through a hollow reed. The string, a pale, almost moonlit silver, hums lightly when you pluck it, and the moment the weapon’s weight shifts, the glow deepens, like a pulse answering a whispered prayer. Lore has the bow born in a valley where healing wells ran dry, carved by a cleric who wandered from village to village with a healer’s staff in one hand and a bow in the other. They say the wood chose its own course after a memory-filled winter—soft, pliable, ready to bend toward life rather than toward the path of destruction. When the cleric laid this bow across a wounded field and spoke a vow to defend the living, energy poured into the wood, locking in a calm, resolute strength. To hold it is to feel the moment of oath—an almost tangible seam between the human hand and the whispering woods—where every stringed note seems to say, “Protect, then guide.” It’s a weapon that does not merely strike; it heals distance, it pins a moment of mercy to the earth and makes it land with a quiet thud in the chest of a friend. In the open road, its significance blossoms into the fabric of daily survival and frontline mercy. Arrows fizzle from the grip in a ribbon of green-light, not just piercing armor but weaving a thread of energy that shores up the vulnerable and unsettles the weary. When a shot lands near the front line, you’ll swear you hear a soft exhale from the wounded and a spark of resilience pinging back to the guardian who holds the line. It’s a longbow that thrives on rhythm—the slower wind-up of a patient hunter who believes in saving the next breath as much as the next target. The energy arrows bloom into wards and bursts of healing, a choreography that keeps a column of allies standing when the rain of arrows begins to come down. Prices drift through the caravan lanes as markets awaken with the day’s first clink of coin, and it’s in the saddlebag-filled aisles where this bow earns its reputation for equal parts form and function. I asked the leather-clad merchant beneath a canvas awning when a buyer’s heart begins to beat faster at the sight of such wood. He whispered of a valuation hovering around seventeen to nineteen silver, depending on the day’s mood and the buyer’s charm. We wandered a few stalls until the Saddlebag Exchange ledger—slick with rain and ink—confirmed the sense that this is not merely gear but a story you carry on your back, an oath you can draw upon when the road grows long. So the Cleric’s Soft Wood Longbow of Energy remains—not just a weapon, but a relic of mercy pressed into living timber, ready to answer the next call with the quiet certainty of a vow kept.