Berserker's Short Bow

Berserker's Short Bow rests in a corner of the armory, its surface a slick blackwood that drinks light rather than reflects it. The limbs curve like the bowed back of a hunter, lacquered in a matte finish that hides scratches earned from countless hunts. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, dark as dried blood, with copper inlays that trace the bow's spine. Along the limbs, runes—thin, angular, almost whisper-light—glow a muted gold when the weapon pulses with its owner’s heartbeat. The string is taut, the wood singing faintly when you test the draw; it's the sound of a promise kept through long nights and hard winters. It is said to have been carved by a hooded smith who learned rage as a language, then tempered it into accuracy. The lore is there in the grain, in the way the finish gathers dust, in the way the wood seems to remember every arrow released. When you nock and pull, the Berserker's Short Bow seems to become part of your arm, as if the wood recognizes the will behind the shot. It rewards boldness: high precision, ferocity, and power align in a single, clean release. In the field, a quick, clean draw lets you slip in between the melee, firing off a succession of shots that feel almost surgical—first a crit, then a second, then a stagger of arrows that press the enemy into retreat. Its build suits a berserker ethos: you walk the line between risk and reward, chasing the moment when a target falters and the bow’s runes surge with energy. In practice, it’s less about simply hitting hard and more about timing, about choosing when to trade distance for effect, when to pressure a frontline and when to retreat to safety with a whispered oath to try again. In the markets of the world, the Berserker’s Short Bow doesn’t come cheap, but it’s the kind of weapon that sells stories as easily as it sells power. I walked past carts stacked with glimmering sigils and leather quivers, and found its price whispered between bartering eyes and careful hands. Saddlebag Exchange kept the ledger honest enough to remind you that a weapon’s value isn’t only in its metal and ink, but in the memories it carries—the hunts it helped win, the storms it weathered, the friends it saved on the edge of night. The merchant spoke of legends and loyalties, of a mark-up for a name that earns its keep through trials—yet the bow’s aura, that tether to a wild, fierce grace, makes it worth the effort. When I finally walked away, the weight of the bow still rested in my palm, a promise to carry forward: to draw, to strike, to endure, and to tell the next tale that the wind will remember. Maybe it's the memory of storm oath, or the quiet breath of a hunter who learned to listen to the silence between shots. In this world, a weapon is a story you can carry on your back.