Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Vision gleams with a troubling, almost living luster. Its limbs are carved from weathered ebony wood, the grain knotted like old battlefield knots that never unwind, and the grip is wrapped in tanned leather scarred by years of use. Along the core runes, pale as moth wings, glow faintly when the bow is drawn, tracing a line from the crest to the tip with a cold blue light. The bowstring, taut and singing with a subtle, almost inaudible sigh, bears a sheen of silver dust that settles in the creases of the wood whenever the weapon meets the air. The ends bear small inlays of bone-white carrion skulls, not grotesque so much as ceremonial, a reminder of a legion that marched under a banner of sight and inevitability. The quiver’s feathers, jet-black and weather-streaked, flutter with each wind that passes as if whispering a warning to those who would mistake silence for safety. The piece carries a lore so thick it almost tastes metallic on the tongue—a weapon forged in the shadow between memory and omen, a relic said to have learned to “see” what the eyes cannot. Legends say the Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Vision was borne by scouts who rode ahead through fog and rot, a unit whose job was to strip away deception from a field soaked in moonlit chatter and rumor. It is told in taverns and campfires that the longbow’s vision is less a spell and more a promise—when the wielder stands at the edge of a conflicted moment, the runes flare and reveal glimpses of hidden belts, ambushers, and the silhouettes that skulk just beyond ordinary sight. Warriors claim the weapon’s power is bound to the memory of their fallen comrades; every shot carries a whisper of rank and oath, a reminder that seeing is both a duty and a burden. In play, the longbow rewards patience and precision. Its reach feels almost elastic, the shots bending toward distant marks with uncanny certainty. The Vision aspect, embodied by the pale glow, has practical weight: it sheds light on stealthed foes and unseals hidden danger in the armor of a silent night. When aimed carefully, the bow’s strikes feel decisive, as though each arrow were a verdict handed down from the field itself. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a ranger feel more like a watcher than a hunter—a sentinel who trades a louder, flashier blade for something quieter but no less devastating. Prices drift through caravans and markets as easily as rumors. At Saddlebag Exchange, the bow’s price sits on a weather-worn ledger, a mark of prestige and peril that only deep pockets and deeper stories can justify. Traders haggle over the balance of rarity and condition, the bow’s blue glow wobbling on the page as if the artifact itself were listening. A buyer’s gaze lingers on the engravings, on the quiet hum of the runes, and on the weight of history that comes with each pull of the string. In such exchanges, the Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Vision remains not merely a tool of the chase, but a hinge for the tale of memory: a weapon that remembers its enemies and asks the hunter to remember them too.