Berserker's Longbow

Berserker's Longbow rests on the table like a captured storm: limbs of smoky ash, grain running in tight ribbons that catch the light and spill it back as amber flecks. The bow’s curve is a quiet, confident crescent, the tips wrapped in weather-darkened leather and bound with brass that has the dull glow of a forge-smith’s last ember. The riser bears a filigree of runes—twisted vines and a single ember-heart at the center—that seem to pulse when you breathe near it. The grip is worn smooth from years of use, its leather cracked and folded in places, a tactile map of every hand that has pressed here before. A taut bowstring, pale as frost, sings softly when drawn, the sound more suggestion than instrument, as if the wood is listening for your breath, waiting for you to choose the moment to release. Lore-laden lore slips from the bow as easily as light: it’s said to have been forged where the wildlands meet the edge of heraldry, a weapon shaped by a hunter who rode with the Berserker legends—the name itself a nod to unyielding, fearless pursuit. The runes tell of storms, of patience tested in firelight, of targets steadied by will more than sight. Some say the bow carries a memory of every marked quarry, a whisper that grows louder in the heat of battle, urging the wielder toward a single, perfect shot. Whether the whispers are true or only the echo of old campfires, the Berserker’s Longbow certainly carries a mood: deliberate, ferocious, precise. In the hands of a skilled ranger, this longbow becomes a partner in the field rather than a simple tool. Its Berserker’s stat heritage—Power, Precision, and Ferocity—reads like a creed: it rewards clean, decisive strikes, the kind that thin a frontline with a single, well-timed arrow. The range invites you to choreograph a fight from a treetop or a ridge, to pick a moment, then tilt the balance with an arrow that lands where you intended and with the force you imagined. It is the kind of weapon that asks for rhythm—one breath, one draw, one release—and it rewards the player who trusts the bow to do the heavy lifting while the world slows to the pace of a hunter’s patience. The long, hopeful arc of its flight is a small drama in a larger campaign, a moment where choice and luck intersect on a field of green or stone. Market whispers about this prize drift through the market lanes, especially at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay leather tags on weathered wood and haggle over the right to name a weapon their own. I watched a buyer and a dealer circle the bow, the tag swinging with each careful step, the price murmured in measured tones. The clerk suggested a sum that would turn heads elsewhere, but here the matter isn’t merely coin—it’s provenance, it’s the chain of hands that have carried this object, it’s the story you’re prepared to tell as you walk away with it. In the end, the tag read a value that echoed the bow’s legend: a measure of prestige tempered by the practical need to feed a fielded life. We all walked away with something heavier than metal—a memory of a shot that could reshape a moment. This longbow isn’t just equipment; it’s a witness to journeys, a blade of wind in the hands of a patient marksman, a companion for whoever chooses to carry it forward into the next horizon.