Berserker's Short Bow

Berserker's Short Bow rests on the worktable as if it were waiting for the next storm. The limbs, carved from ash-gray wood, taper to a whisper at the tips and bear a grain that seems to shift when you tilt your head. The grip is wrapped in rough leather, scarred by rain and salt, and copper threads catch the lamplight with a patient shine. Along the belly a line of bone inlays—wolf fangs, perhaps, or the relics of something fiercer—sit in a shallow arc, catching the eye and inviting a closer touch. The string is taut and pale, ready to sing its dry, clean note at the first draw. There’s a scent of resin and smoke that clings to the wood, a memory of the forge and a wind that carried hawks over a sun-baked road. The lore surrounding it whispers of a berserker who chose discipline over uncontrolled rage, fashioning a weapon that could channel fury into a surgical, swift strike rather than a reckless roar. In the field, the bow makes its case without fuss. It is a compact hunter’s tool, light enough to snap into a quick rhythm and yet stubborn enough to hold a line of sight as arrows arc toward distant silhouettes. Its balance favors speed and precision—shots that bite on a sharp breath, then sail away on a hinge of momentum. Those who pair it with light, harrying tactics discover a rhythm: shoot, retreat, reposition, repeat. The Berserker’s Short Bow rewards focus, letting a veteran marksman weave in and out of the fray, layering rapid volleys with clean, high-precision hits that punish exposed flank and wandering guards alike. It isn’t merely a weapon; in the right hands it becomes a storytelling instrument—each arrow a line in a larger narrative about what steadiness can accomplish when the world seems ready to collapse around you. Prices drift through town squares and along caravan lanes, and the best bargains move with the same quiet patience as the bow’s craft. I heard a vendor whisper of the piece being traded at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay open their wares on tables slick with rain and the dust of a hundred miles. A fair grip, they said, could fetch two silver coins if the buyer is quick of tongue and quicker with coin, though a meticulous collector might swap a chipped amulet or a scarred blade for something rarer. The exchange is a kind of crossroads—between memory and necessity, between old scars and fresh starts—and the Berserker’s Short Bow seems to ride that line with ease, offered by someone who knows its worth not just in damage, but in the story it carries from one weary road to the next. When you lift it, you feel the world tilt toward a singular purpose: the hiss of a drawn string, the quiet thrum as the arrow catches air, and the certainty that a single well-timed shot can carve a path through fear and doubt. The bow isn’t simply a tool; it’s a witness to the kind of courage that looks danger in the eye and chooses to walk forward, arrow ready, heart steady.