Carrion Flame Short Bow of Air

Carrion Flame Short Bow of Air rests on the table like a fossil from a wind-swept battlefield. Its limbs are ash-dark wood, carved with jagged glyphs that catch the torchlight and ripple with every breath of breeze. The bowstring, braided from pale sinew, carries a faint tremor—almost a sigh—when you pluck it, as if the air itself had learned to listen. The short bow’s frame is compact, almost personal in hand, and the grip is wrapped in leather that smells faintly of smoke and rain. Along the riser run runic sigils that glow when the air thickens, a pale blue that deepens into a quiet ember as you draw back. The “Carrion Flame” name speaks a story in itself: a hunter’s weapon forged from burnt, memory-scarred wood, bound to the wind by a small, stubborn spark of magic. The lore says it was once given to the swiftest scout of a caravan fleeing plague-wick flames, a tool that could turn a breath of air into a blade. In the field, the bow feels alive with that same breath. It rewards steady hands and a mind tuned to tempo—the kind of tempo you find in patrols where every shadow might hide a risk, and every whisper of wind could carry a message. Its projectiles slice through air with a whistle, then veer toward their mark as if the wind itself guided the arrow’s arc. The weapon isn’t about brute force; it’s about acceleration and deception: a first shot to test a sentry’s posture, a second to vanish into a thicket before the world tires of shouting, and a third that turns a skirmish into a controlled retreat or a decisive breakthrough. When the wind is right, you can feel the Bow of Air snapping synchrony with your heartbeat, as though you and the air were rehearsing a quiet duet. Hunters speak of its ease of handling in crowded chokepoints and its uncanny balance when you need to relocate on the fly, lips loosened in a rare smile as a distant target finally yields. The market has never been cruel about beauty, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where this particular relic tends to make its rounds. Traders will tell you the price ebbs and flows with the season, but the sense that glides through the stalls is consistent: a premium for something that handles like a whisper and carries a legend. I’ve seen the Carrion Flame Short Bow of Air traded between a quiet veteran and a bright-eyed recruit, the bargain struck in copper and silver, a story of wind and memory traded as lightly as the weapon’s own touch. A few coins more, a few stories less—that’s the rhythm of the exchange, where lore and value blur, and the bow moves from one hand to the next like a breath passed along a line of friends. It’s not merely a tool; it’s a portable omen, a reminder that air can be spent, yet never exhausted, when carried with skill and care.