Berserker's Short Bow

Berserker's Short Bow rests on a scarred oak counter, its limbs of smoked ash curved with the precision of a predator's jaw. The grain twists like a map drawn in battle, coppery veins catching the light with every subtle twist of its form. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that bites slightly where my fingers settle; the texture is a reminder of long-traveled nights and quick, forgotten sunrises. Along the riser runes coil in a jagged spiral, a hunter’s sigil that seems to glow when the bow catches a sunbeam. The bowface wears a lacquer of deep crimson; at the center, a hawk’s head is etched in dull iron, as if the bird itself guards the arrow slit. A tiny nick in the wood hints at stories—perhaps a near-miss through a rain-slick pass, or a vow spoken in the heat of pursuit. Legend whispers it was tempered by a Berserker whose fury fed the timber, and that its name was carved with the bite of iron to remind the wielder that restraint follows speed. In combat, the bow speaks in swift, brutal cadences. It favors those who prize rapid, precise strikes over heavy, ponderous blows. Its range sits comfortably in a close-to-mid distance that lets a hunter feel the world breathe—the chance to slip from shadow, string singing, before the target realizes the danger. With a build that leans into precision and ferocity, arrows seem to crackle with extra edge, turning quick encounters into decisive punctuation. It’s not a weapon for siege, but a partner for nimble feet and tucked-in shots, the kind that makes a lone archer feel like a drumbeat guiding a skirmish rather than a brick in a wall. When the shot lands, the world seems to tighten; you step, you fire, and the bow’s voice—almost a hiss of wind through cedar—tells you the next breath is yours to claim. The Berserker’s Short Bow becomes a character of its own, urging the wielder to press the moment and trust the split-second decision that follows. Whispers in the market speak of its lore as much as its steel. The woods remember it; the sigils over the grip tell a tale of hunts that cut through law and doubt alike. It travels not merely as a tool, but as a token of a hunter’s oath—deliver the shot, seize the moment, live by the pace of your own heart. The bow’s legend travels with you into every skirmish, a reminder that passion and discipline can coexist in the same breath. On a sun-warmed stall in the city’s bustle, a clerk flicks through a ledger and mentions a price, but the real marker of worth lingers beyond coin. In Saddlebag Exchange, the listings pulse with living demand—rangers and renegades chasing the same memory, each willing to trade coin for a piece of that legacy. The price reflects not just wood and resin, but the story you choose to tell with each arrow you loose. To own Berserker’s Short Bow is to step into a lineage where speed is the creed and courage the weather—the moment you draw and let the wind decide your fate.