Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Rage

Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Rage rests on the market bench, its limbs carved from weathered ash and bound with sinew that has darkened to a hunter’s patina. The wood bears a satin grain, as if polished by rain and time, while bone inlays trace a pale, skeletal curl along the belly. The grip is wrapped in weather-worn red leather, each turn of the wrap pressed with the quiet authority of someone who has learned to listen to a weapon’s breath. The bowstring vibrates with a low, almost domestic murmur, and the iron ferrules at the tips glint as if they remember a hundred ambushes. When the lantern light catches the crest on the grip—a carrion bird frozen in mid-screech—the bow seems to lean in, as if eager to tell its own story. It smells faintly of swamp ash and salt, and of old spellwork pressed into the grain, a scent that makes the fingers twitch with anticipation rather than fatigue. Lore threads through its appearance, linking the weapon to a band spoken of in hushed tavern prayers as the Carrion Legionnaires, scavengers who turned the world’s detritus into something dangerous and purposeful. The “Rage” etched along the belly is not merely a name; it’s said to be a rune-fed enchantment that feeds off a bearer’s anger, concentrating that raw impulse into a precise, surgical strike. In battle, the bow seems to snatch the moment away from the chaos, forcing the shooter to trust a flow of energy that crawls through the arm and lands in the target with the cold certainty of a dawn frost. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a ranger feel like a relay runner between two worlds—the world that bleeds and the one that cuts cleanly through it. In gameplay, the Carrion Legionnaire Short Bow of Rage feels like a story you can live inside. Its short reach and light frame reward quick draws and rapid hops between targets, letting a skilled archer weave shots through a frontline’s gaps. The rage rune tightens that rhythm, granting Fury on successful hits and lifting critical power during bursts, so each arrow lands with a sharper edge while the world’s noise fades to the cadence of your aim. It encourages a playstyle that favors precision, timing, and the discipline to read a fight as a sequence of breaths rather than a clamor of chaos. Used well, it becomes a character’s voice—a way to speak decisively when the caravan trembles and the night learns to listen for the telltale creak of the string. Pricing, of course, is not a private argument but a dance done in daylight and dust. I watched a seller at Saddlebag Exchange mutter about the bow’s rarity and the time-worn magic that clings to it, the kind of item that draws two kinds of buyers: those who bargain for sport and those who bargain for a memory turned weapon. The mark on the tag spoke of a fair trade, a coin’s worth tempered by stories—one that would not devalue the world’s scars but rather honor them. In that exchange, the Bow found a new steward, and the road ahead grew a little more inevitable, a little more personal, as Rage answered Rage in the quiet mathematics of a well-placed shot.