Carrion Flame Short Bow of Water

The Carrion Flame Short Bow of Water sits on a weather-worn cloth, its limbs dark as peat and carved with runes that glow a pale, scarlet embers when a rainstorm drums on the roof. The grip is wrapped in weathered hide, slick with resin and damp salt from marsh air, while the string hums with a low, wet note that makes the room feel just a touch cooler every time the bow is lifted. The wood bears tiny nicks from field wear, like a veteran’s smile, and along the belly run a ribbon of blue that seems to ripple with every breath of air, as if a river had learned to bend around the weapon itself. A ghost of carrion-haunt lore clings to it—the name whispered by keeper-cables and old huntlines—suggesting the bow was coaxed from the remains of a hunter’s quarry, then baptized in a conduit of water-fire so it would thirst for rain rather than sun. The “Flame” part does not blaze outright; rather it flickers in the grain, a memory of heat trapped in ash, a reminder of how quickly life can ignite and fade in a storm’s shadow. And the “Water” inscription carved near the grip feels cool to the touch, a tide in miniature that steadies the hand when the world grows loud. In practice, the weapon moves with a hunter’s economy: quick, precise, and forgiving enough for ambushes in swamp-dark brush but sharp enough to crack a guard’s armor with a patient eye and a patient breath. Its bolts seem to carry a whisper of the elements—shoots that bite with a frost-like bite when the air is damp, or that slip a slippery calm into the heart of a skirmish, forcing enemies to pause as if listening for a signal only the water could give. Veterans say the bow’s true strength lies in telling a story with each release: a narrative of carrion scavengers learning to survive by listening to rivers, a tale of flame tempered by rain, of heat coaxed into hush by tides. Those who study its lore claim the weapon rewards restraint—short, clean bursts that leave the mind open for the next breath, the next shot, the next move through a ruined town or a rain-slick ledge above a choked stream. Market whispers drift with the dust of merchants and travelers. I found the bow at a sunken stall near the market’s edge, where a trader called Saddlebag Exchange laid out curious wares like a map of odd fates. The price rode the wind between promise and bargain, a coin-toss of gold and silver as the scales settled on a fair sum, and I watched the vendor weigh the item with a practiced eye, turning it this way and that as if listening for the river’s version of truth. The bow’s value, he finally said, would ride on the buyer’s hands as much as the item’s memory—an exchange of stories as much as coins. For the right person, he noted with a half-smile, the Carrion Flame Short Bow of Water is not just a weapon but a companion for nights when rain speaks in old tongues and the road ahead sisters itself with fog. In that moment, the world around the stall seemed to lean closer, and the bow, with its haunted glow and river-song grip, felt like a doorway rather than a mere tool—one that could carry a hunter’s fate through a rain-soaked chapter of the land.