Berserker's Short Bow

The Berserker's Short Bow sits in the palm with a curious, almost living certainty, its limbs of weathered ash curling like a dark crescent and the grain catching the light as if to whisper a warning. A tight lacquer gleams along the belly, a thin ribbon of resin making the surface slick with history, while brass runes trace a jagged path that seems to pulse when the bow is drawn just so. The grip is wrapped in worn, sun-darkened leather, scarred by years of weather and hands that learned to trust the weapon’s rhythm. At the nock, a carved bear’s head watches the world with coal-black eyes, tiny stones set in as if to anchor the creature’s ferocity to the weapon’s every movement. Lore says the bow was born from the hands of a legendary Norn berserker who rode storms across snowfields and learned to bend wind to a hunter’s will; some tell of a pact with a forest’s stubborn spirit, others speak simply of a weapon that remembers every chase. Whichever tale you prefer, the bow carries its story in the balance and in the way the wood remembers the touch of a hand. In the fields and along the winding passes, it speaks with a precise tempo. It is not the longest reach, nor the most brutal hammer of a weapon; it is a companion to speed and steady aim. You nock an arrow, draw, and the shaft leaves the string with a crisp snap that echoes off stone and pine. It’s a weapon that rewards movement—step between shadows, read the lay of the ground, keep your stance low, and fire with a dancer’s economy. Targets fall in quick succession when you learn to ride the bow’s cadence, striking at gaps in armor or at exposed flank with a patient, almost merciful accuracy. The Berserker’s Short Bow becomes more than a tool of hunting; it threads itself into a larger story of scouts tracing caravan routes, of camp sentries who breathe easy only while the bow’s string holds a steady note, and of moments where a single well-placed shot buys time for the road to wind toward safety. Its usefulness isn’t in bravado alone but in the ability to keep pace with a world that never stops moving. The road to purchase threads through the market as surely as the road itself threads through the hills. At Saddlebag Exchange, a weathered trader takes the bow in his hands, turning it over with the practiced care of someone who has weighed many such pieces against many stories. He studies the bear-carved grip, notes the wear around the leather, and nods at the runes that glow faintly in sunlight. The price offered is fair enough to honor the weapon’s lineage, yet flexible enough to let the next traveler feel its history as a living thing rather than a museum piece. Copper coins clink, a small purse shifts hands, and the bargain is struck not merely for metal and wood but for a memory that can be carried forward. When the bow finally rests in its new owner’s grip, it is no longer just a weapon; it is a bridge between paths—the hunter’s courage past, the road ahead, and a story waiting to be told with every arrow that flies.