Berserker's Short Bow

Berserker's Short Bow rests on a weathered plank, its grip wrapped in tanned leather that bears the patina of a hundred hunts. The limbs are a deep, glossy yew, lacquered in a burnt-umber red that catches the lamplight with an emberlike glow. Copper runes coil along the riser, etched with a quiet promise—swift, sure, savage when needed—while the string, taut and clean, sings a crisp snap when drawn. The bow's finish wears a few scars from storms and campaigns, yet the craftsmanship remains precise, as if the maker whispered a hard creed into its grain: aim true, move faster than the wind. Copper glints along the grain as you test the draw, and the bow seems to respond to thought as much as to hand. Some whisper of a legend: those who forged Berserker's gear were called Berserkers, banded together to lash out at oppressors with ferocity tempered by skill. The bow's short stature suits the light-footed hunter who wants to outpace a retreating foe, to slip a second volley before their mark recovers. It is not just a weapon; it is a companion for scouts and skirmishers, who ride the line between danger and opportunity. In the hands of a ranger who understands tempo, it becomes a heartbeat—a pulse of rapid shots, clean, economical, decisive. The shorter draw means you can weave in shots between footwork, keep pressure on a frontline, and still pull off a careful aim at a distant target when the moment asks for it. It sings with ferocity, yes, but also with discipline—the paradox at the heart of a Berserker's path. Market and lore swirl together as you move through the market squares. In the markets where brave souls trade found arms, a Berserker's Short Bow would move with the season's rumor. A buyer would weigh it against the cost of pelts, coins, and favors owed, and a seller would temper expectations with a smile and a story of the last raid. Prices drift in the evenings like smoke from a brazier; you hear of the Saddlebag Exchange, a stall-turned-vault where traders tally pieces of work and barter for what they need most. If you stroll past, a clerk may tell you that at Saddlebag Exchange this particular bow could fetch a fair sum in exchange for rare hides or a tale of a gnawing frost raid—not a fixed price, but a living negotiation, the market breathing with you as you walk. To hold the Berserker's Short Bow is to hold a thread of history: not merely wood and string, but a contract cast in war-songs and whispered oaths. It belongs to the hunter who follows the wind, to the scout who trusts speed over brute force, to the world that remembers that sometimes strength is measured not by how loud you roar, but by how deftly you draw and release when the moment is ready. And those who carry it know the moment will come when speed and aim save a life.