Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Accuracy

Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Accuracy rests against a rain-worn post, its limbs curved with the quiet menace of a predator, the wood a deep, varnished brown etched with pale sigils of carrion birds and the ghostly shimmer of resin-fed grain along the grip. The string, taut as a drawn breath, bears the memory of countless hunts: a line of tiny scuffs where fingers learned the bow’s exact return, a brass plate running its belly carved with a skull and a laurel—an insult to death and a nod to discipline. The finish catches the light like polished bone, and the carved runes pulse faintly when the night wind carries news of the dead. In the right hands, it feels heavier with history than with metal, as if every arrow it looses carries a tale of marching orders and quiet, stubborn resolve. Its lore glides into the present as smoothly as the bow’s arrow would cut through a fog. The Legionnaire who bore this weapon was not merely a fighter but a courier of admonitions—one who walked between camps of living and the legions that never truly sleep. Tales say the bow parted with its owner after a long campaign through ruinous fields where carrion-marked banners hung like clouds at dusk. Some claim the wood was salvaged from a tree struck by a forgotten plague; others insist the sigils were burned in by a veteran’s hand to seal the weapon to a code of precision and mercy. Either version gives the longbow a gravity you can measure in footsteps: precise, patient, relentless. When an archer learns to trust it, the bow seems to whisper a single truth—that the aim is a duty as much as a skill. In battle, its significance unfolds with quiet certainty. It rewards patience and seamanship—the kind of hunter who watches the wind, listens for the creak of a bowstring in the distance, and places an arrow where a heart would be, not where a target sits on a map. The Accuracy in its name isn’t just a stat; it’s a promise that the shot will remain true under pressure, that the pull of the string won’t betray the hand even when the group behind you is pressing forward or the ground beneath your feet trembles with distant drums. Ranged skirmishes, scouting runs, and long, drawn-out sieges all find a friend in this weapon, a long breath before the rain of arrows. Market days give the bow a different kind of life. I watched a trader’s satchel bulge with stories and coins as we walked into the sun-warmed stalls, the leather glistening with oil and dust. He spoke softly about prices, not bargaining and bravado but the quiet arithmetic of supply and desire, and I found myself following the cadence until Saddlebag Exchange appeared on the edge of the square like a doorway to another chapter. There, under awnings scented with resin and salt, the Carrion Legionnaire Longbow of Accuracy changed hands for a price reflective of its weight in memory and potential—enough to make a hunter pause, weighing risk against the inevitable pull of a sharpened edge. It felt less like a purchase and more like an oath renewed, a promise that the next arrow would not merely pierce air but carry a story forward. And so the bow waits, almost patient, for the next niche of shadow to lean into, for the next target to become a chapter in a longer, quieter tale about duty, skill, and the unspoken pact between hunter and hunted.