Carrion Flame Bow of Air

Carrion Flame Bow of Air glows with a cruel, living burn, its limbs of charred ebony curved in a way that makes the light between them seem to tremble. The grip is wrapped in cracked leather that smells faintly of smoke and rain, and a pale, bone crest sits at the nock like a watchful eye. Veins of ember thread the wood, pulsing faintly as if the bow itself remembers each draw and release. Along the belly, sigils flicker with a pale blue frost, as if a cold breath has carved the names of forgotten storms into the weapon. When you lift it, you feel not weight so much as a promise—that the air itself might bend to your will for a heartbeat or two. To nock an arrow is to hear a hush in the air, a whisper that says the bow is listening. Draw, and the weapon becomes feather-light, a hunter’s breath coiling around your fingers. Release, and the arrow hisses with flame, a slender comet that drags a tail of crackling wind. It isn’t merely fire; it’s a gust that bites, a little storm you release with practiced aim. On impact the glow flares outward, burning a ring around the target and weaving a small gust that rattles shields and unsettles footing. In skilled hands this bow choreographs a dance of heat and air—a fast sequence that can break a line, split a crowd, or set up a follow-up strike with surgical timing. Lore threads through its flame like a weathered compass. The Carrion Flame Bow of Air is said to have been tempered in a forge fed by carrion embers and cooled by the breath of a vindicating wind spirit. Some tell of a hunter who bargained with a tempest to bind its roar into a weapon, sealing a spark of death with the lightness of a breeze. The “Carrion” in its name hints at the way power can rise from decay, while the “of Air” suffix speaks to a pact with the invisible currents that sweep across the world’s frontiers. It’s a weapon meant for those who listen to the weather as if it were a chorus—who understand that to strike is to invite the wind to answer back. Market whispers keep pace with its legend. I followed the trail to Saddlebag Exchange, where traders, rust-streaked and wary, haggle over relics like this one as if they were weather patterns themselves—always shifting, always just a little unpredictable. The bow sits among other wind-lit curiosities, and the ledger sings of its rarity in a tone that makes you lean in for a closer look. The price glides with the market’s mood, swinging with storms and shipments, with buyers trading fur, ore, or a favor tucked away in a ledger. The Exchange offers a sense of scale—power measured not merely in damage but in the stories you can tell when you wield it. And so the Carrion Flame Bow of Air passes from one hunter’s hands to another, a conduit between candlelit rooms and wind-scoured hills. It insists on a pace—one of breath and spark, of patience and precision—reminding us that power in this world is always a balance: between decay and renewal, between flame and wind, between the moment you draw and the moment you let go.