Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Blood

The Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Blood gleams with a cruel, lacquered sheen, its blackened ash limbs carved with ribbed channels resembling bone, and a grip wrapped in tanned hide stained the color of dried wine. Runic inlays coil along the riser, tiny sigils that pulse when the bow settles into a draw, like a heartbeat in wood and sinew. A slender skull motif crowns the nock, its eye sockets catching the glint of light as if waiting for a misstep. Leather thongs rattle softly as you shoulder it, and the string carries a faint scent of iron and earth, as though the bow remembers every battlefield it has seen. In its lore, it is said to be forged from the remnants of a Carrion Legionnaire who fell at a crossing of necromantic plagues, bound anew to the weapon in a vow of vengeance. The weapon does not boast color or fanfare, yet the aura around it is undeniable: a hunger that feeds on blood and tunes the user’s aim to a higher, predatory precision. When you notch an arrow and draw, the bow exhales a cold promise, and every shot seems to pull at the life around the target. The Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Blood grants a sharpened edge to precision and lifeforce—on critical hits, the wielder siphons a portion of vitality from the foe, fueling the next strike with a ghostly warmth. It rewards patience: rapid fire burns through stamina and leaves you exposed, but a measured, blood-worn cadence can redraw the field in your favor. Rangers who favor grim, methodical tempo find the longbow an extension of their will, while necromancers who borrow a hunter’s discipline appreciate the way its magic echoes old, blood-bound oaths of war. Its arrows are said to drink as much from the air as from the target, leaving a faint crimson tracer that hints at the wound’s afterglow. Some whisper the weapon once turned an ambush into a rout, a memory carried in the scratches along the riser. Prices wander through camps and market stalls, but a whispered ledger at Saddlebag Exchange places this longbow in the rare, coveted category—roughly a dozen gold pieces, depending on the buyer’s willingness to trade favors, delivery, and the bow’s mood on the day. Vendors speak of a bond that hovers near the edge of a bargain, a measured risk that the weapon will sing for someone who earns its trust. The exchange itself is a chorus of murmured numbers, rustling maps, and the soft clink of coin pouches, a place where explorers barter stories for steel. It travels with you like a companion who never forgives a misstep. Its use in a skirmish is not merely about numbers on a screen but about the narrative you carry—the longbow as ally and witness, a blade of memory that remembers a legion’s oath and the day the ground drank red again. In the wider world, the Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Blood sits at the hinge between respect and fear, a reminder that power, once awakened, demands a ledger and a conscience. When you raise it to the sky and loose, you do more than deal damage; you participate in a story that may outlive you, one bolt at a time.