Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Blood

Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Blood glints with a dull copper patina, its woodwork scarred by past skirmishes and the grain singing with a quiet strain when the wind dares to pass along the battlefield. The stock is narrow yet sturdy, wrapped in weathered crimson leather that bears the faint impression of knuckles and calluses—an aging grip that has known more than one life. Along the limbs, runes crawl like dried vines: carrion feathers, a skeletal heart, a single droplet of red that never seems to dry. The bowstring, taut and pale as bone, carries a whisper of stories when drawn, a soft sigh of the dead and the living sharing a breath for a moment before a shaft takes flight. It feels both ancient and functional, as if it could be an heirloom to a hunter of shadows or a tool of a last-resort defense for a fractured squad. Lore threads through the texture and tone—the sense that this weapon was forged in the aftermath, tempered by blood and resolve. The name itself—of Blood—speaks of more than a color; it hints at a pact between weapon and wielder, a conduit for life’s remaining pulse to guide bone and string toward their target. Folk of the border salt-huts speak of carrion legionnaires who rose from the marshy depths with a cruel patience, their long-gone orders reforged as whispers in the reeds. If a hunter holds this bow, there’s a feeling that the arrow returns a fragment of its wearer’s old purpose: to reach out through the air and mark the living with a crimson covenant that lingers a heartbeat longer than the shot itself. In the field, the Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Blood does not shout for attention; it persuades through quiet consequence. Its shots bite with a measured precision, letting you hold steady in the crosswinds of a skirmish while your foes stagger under the slow, creeping work of bleeding and attrition. The weapon lends itself to builds that favor control and extended engagement—ranged pressure that keeps opponents from pressing the line, while the bleed condition—fueled by the bow’s marrow-softened charge—pools warmth into a distant battle plan. It feels less about flashy bursts and more about weaving a narrative of gradual, inexorable wear on a frontline, a classic arc where every arrow is a sentence and every volley a paragraph. On the road between camps and markets, the price of such a relic becomes a story of its own. I traded a handful of coins and a few traded tales with a traveling dealer at Saddlebag Exchange, where wares drift in like dusk and prices drift with the hour. The vendor’s eyes narrowed, and he weighed the bow as if measuring the life it held: roughly nine silvertokens, a touch more if the buyer wanted a brace of forged bolts and a second chance to walk away alive. The exchange felt less like a shop and more like a crossing point for history—a place where a weapon’s memory could be judged by its worth in copper and courage alike. And so the Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Blood leaves an impression that lingers in the throat as you slip it into the next fight: a relic of bitter campaigns, a companion to patient archers, and a reminder that some weapons carry more than force—they carry the weight of the fallen, and the promise that their stories won’t end while the string remains taut.