Berserker's Longbow

Berserker's Longbow gleams with lacquered rosewood and riveted steel, its limbs carved in the shape of snarling wolves, the grip worn smooth from a hundred nights of hunting. The bow’s surface bears runes that glow a pale amber when morning light slides along the wood, as if the hunter’s fury could be read in a language of shadows. Lore whispers that it was tempered in the fires of a siege near winter-biting ridges, forged for a berserker who believed rage could be guided by a measured shot. When you hoist it, the weight settles like a promise: raw power tempered by discipline, a weapon that wants to ride the line between frenzy and focus. In the field, the bow feels less like a tool and more like a companion that knows your heartbeat. The longbow’s reach is generous, the arrows leaving with a whistle that cuts the wind and finds its mark with stubborn precision. Its advantage isn’t just raw damage; it’s tempo. You learn to let fear hang on the air for a fraction of a breath, then release, watching a crimson-tipped shaft streak through the air and pin a foe before retreat is even a thought. It suits a hunter who moves as if drawn by a thread of fate, striking from cover, then weaving back into shadow before your adversaries realize the storm has begun. With this bow in hand, you don’t rush a fight; you coax it, drawing lines in the battlefield as if sketching the path of a legend you’ve sworn to finish. Its allure rests not only in the shot but in the story it carries: the wolf-embraced grip that remembers a hundred camps, the glow of runes that hum softly when the moon rides high, and the sense that every arrow released is a small oath kept to those who taught you to take aim. That lore threads into the world’s larger tapestry—hunters and berserkers alike pressing forward into haunted forests, alleys slick with rain, and snow-swept passes where even the bravest pause to listen for the bowstring’s sigh. When a clan speaker sings of prowess, the Berserker’s Longbow often sits at the heart of the tale, a symbol that rage can be harnessed, that power can be held and shaped with cunning as deft as any blade. Prices and passes between travelers are never far from the chatter around a weapon like this. In the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans exchange not just cargo but stories, the bow’s value is weighed against memory as much as coin. I watched a veteran barterer run a careful eye over the grain of the wood, the patina on the steel, and the way the runes caught the daylight. The tag spoke of a fair silver price, enough to honor the history etched into the grip while acknowledging the practical edge it still carries for a new owner ready to write the next chapter of its saga. So the Berserker’s Longbow remains more than gear. It’s a partner in long nights and long roads, a weapon born from fury but tempered by skill, and a conduit through which a hunter can turn instinct into story. Each shot is a line of prose inked on a landscape that never forgets.