Strong Short Bow

The Strong Short Bow rests on the worn wooden table, its stave polished by years of handling. The wood is a deep ash, almost black in the lamplight, with a subtle wavering grain that seems to move when your gaze slips away. The grip is wrapped in aged leather, its ridges knurled for a steady hold, and the bowstring, tight as a drawn breath, hums faintly as you test the tension. Runes along the belly glow faintly, not with fire but with a cool pale sheen, whispering of a hunter’s lineage—perhaps the Skyscouts who learned to bend wind around a steady hand. The resin at the tips catches the light, giving the bow a life-like shimmer, as if a forest spirit had pressed it to its own heart for safekeeping. In your palm, it feels lighter than its rakish form would suggest, as if the timber had learned to shed weight with every quiet patrol it has endured. Its length is deceptive—short enough to flick out a quick volley, long enough to sail a raft of arrows cleanly over a wary fence. The Strong prefix seems earned, not promised: a confidence stitched into the grain, a promise that rough weather and rough roads would not loosen its aim. A minor crest, a hawk in mid-swoop, is carved near the grip, a nod to forest scouts who once whispered warnings to the birds and the wind alike. Some swear they hear a whispered song when the string slips free—an old ranger’s lullaby, a reminder that even weapons remember their first hand. What it does in the field matters more than its polish. It is the weapon of choice for nimble scouts who need speed, for those who slip between shadows and strike with a breath, then vanish before the echo of a shout can find them. Its short reach invites close, aiming through the surface detours of cover, yet its accuracy stands firm when drawn to a distant, stubborn target. In a world where traps and treachery fill the woods, the Strong Short Bow becomes a quiet ally—an instrument that lets a hunter thread through enemies with a smile and a sigh, leaving only the sound of delivered intent. The market clatter—feet beating dust, leather creaking, lanterns swinging—pulls me toward Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where prices drift with the winds and the stories of buyers. The clerk’s hands move with practiced ease as he weighs the bow in copper and silver, nodding toward the rare glimmer that marks it as more than wood and string. “A fair trade,” he says, tapping the table, “for a hunter who still believes a target’s heart beats in rhythm with the arrow.” The bow changes hands then, but its tale—of carved hawk, of weathered wood, of a string that understands the quiet courage of quick shots—lingers in the air. When a new owner lifts it, the room seems to hold its breath, and the forest outside breathes with them, ready for the next decisive moment.