Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Vision

Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Vision rests in the palm like a relic unearthed from a burned camp, its ash-black wood sipping the light and returning it in a whisper of blue-green sheen. The stock is etched with carrion-white runes that curl along the grip like dried vines, each glyph catching a moment of glare and holding it, as if the bow itself memorizes every breath of the battlefield. The bowstring, a tough sinew pale as bone, creaks softly when drawn, and the notch where arrow meets wood is carved with a tiny, patient iris, as if the weapon were always watching, always judging the next strike. A band of leather wraps the fore-end in a practiced touch, worn smooth by years of braced elbows and quick, practiced nocks. Along the belly of the limb, a faint pattern of starved petals hints at its carrion origin—the kind of motif a scavenger clan might wear as a badge of survival—yet the overall silhouette remains pristine, almost ceremonial, as though this short bow were trained for parley as much as for skirmish. In the lore-laden hush of its design, there’s a whisper that the Carrion Legionnaire who first forged this weapon did so to honor a fallen comrade who had learned to “see” through the fog of deceit. The Vision suffix isn’t simply a boast of accuracy; old smiths swore the iris sigil could catch glints of truth in a hunter’s shadow, guiding arrows toward whispered paths where the unwary would stumble. The result is a weapon that feels ancient and intimate, like a confidant pressed into your grasp, something that remembers the stories a ranger speaks aloud and the ones kept stubbornly in the dark. When you slip this bow into your hands, the world seems to tilt just enough to make you listen harder. In practical terms, it’s a tool for the patient scout and the swift skirmisher—a balance of steadiness and haste. A hunter can blend the bow with tactics that bargain stealth for clarity, using the iris-mark to narrow angles, pick through brush and ruin, and slice through the fog of ambushes. Its range is crisp, the draw smooth, and the iron will of the weapon seems to push the wielder toward deliberate shots rather than reckless rushes. In the hands of someone who respects its history, the Vision bow becomes more than a perang weapon; it’s a map of the terrain’s lies, a guide that favors those who learn to read the ground beneath their feet as easily as the sky above. Market days bring a different rhythm to the tale. Traders whisper about the bow at Saddlebag Exchange, where leathered merchants and caravan masters huddle over ledgers that smell of rain and oil. The price tag—ever fluid, never fixed—drifts with mood and demand, a reflection of how many eyes have trusted the weapon with truths they hoped to uncover. A buyer might haggle for a moment, trading silver for a chance to hear the bow’s sigh when drawn, or swap a story about a night raid in exchange for a glint of its sigils catching the torchlight. It’s not just a transaction but a passage, a moment when a seeker becomes a keeper of a history threaded through wood, sinew, and a gaze that never forgets what it has seen.