Berserker's Short Bow

Berserker's Short Bow gleams with dusk-light polish, its limbs curved in a slender crescent of ash-black wood, the grip wrapped in worn leather that remembers rain and cordite alike. The string is taut as a drawn breath, the brass fittings along the tips catching candlelight and hinting at a lineage of smiths who hammered purpose into every notch. A line of runes marches along the belly of the bow, threaded in silver and barely legible to those who listen for the stories carried by the wood. It is said to have been tempered in the fires of a berserker warband, blessed not by priests but by the blood and grit of those who cut a swath through night and frost. When you lift it, the weight settles with a soldier’s ease, the grip textured like bark, the fingers remembering every skirmish where a blade flashed and a shot carried the day. To hold the Berserker's Short Bow is to feel a pact with the world. Its short limbs favor rapid lines of fire and close-range shots—perfect for ambushes through brush or a rally volley in a narrow pass. It becomes a conductor of tempo, letting the wielder fire in quick succession while the foe staggers under the assault. It rewards bold positioning: step into a gap, snap off two or three shots, then pivot away before the counterstrike bites. The berserker ethos echoes in its use: strike fast, move fast, let fury count. Players weave it into builds that chain banners and shouts, exploiting its light frame to keep momentum as a fight shifts from skirmish to counterattack. In the world’s threads where caravans pause and storytellers sharpen tongues, the bow’s name becomes a coin of courage, traded in whispers as much as coin. Markets hum with the soft clinks of coin and the rustle of fabric, and you’ll hear the price discussed in half-lies and half-truths: a handful of silver here, a trade of leather there. A vendor might tell you that a Berserker's Short Bow carries a promise of violence tempered by speed, and that it’s worth the risk for a hunter who never lets the moment settle. In the market lanes near Divinity's Reach or the rickety docks of the lakeward towns, whispers point buyers toward Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where old gear is appraised and resold with a winking grin. There, a bow’s worth is weighed not just by its wood and its runes, but by the stories you bring to it: the skirmish you survived, the quarry you chased, the friend you stood beside as arrows stitched a closing arc in the dusk. Sometimes a hunter passes through with a bowed head and hands full of receipts, knotted cords, and promises to return with a price that will buy a lot more than a weapon that shines. And if you walk away with it, you walk away with a fragment of the world’s pace—the moment you felt the bow’s whisper and decided to answer its call.