Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Blood

The Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Blood sits on the old butcher-block counter in the market's shadowed corner, a weapon that seems to breathe with its own ache. The limbs are a wavering, resin-dark wood, lacquered to a glass-sheen that catches the light like wet slate. Carved along the belly are rib-spline motifs, bone-gray and chipped at the edges, as if the bow itself remembers every strike it has ever tasted. The grip is wrapped in tanned hide, cracked from storms and travel, and the string is a pale, taut line that whispers when you draw it back, as if the weapon were drawing breath with you. A ring of dried blood-red resin seals the end of the grip, catching the eye with a quiet, unsettling gleam. Small glyphs, etched with patient care, run along the back—sigils of ward and warning—little stories told in ironwood and pigment. The feathers on the nock are mottled, black and ash-gray, the tips singed with a memory of flame, and the whole thing carries a scent of rain-soaked earth and the copper tang of something ancient. Lore has it that this bow was birthed in a caravan of scavengers who traded heat and hunger as currency, a tribe that learned to listen to the breath of carrion as if it spoke in a tongue only the dead could translate. They claimed the bow drank the life from its quarry, feeding on the crimson ripple of blood to temper its draw and sharpen its aim. To hold it is to feel watched by the long gaze of a field of broken graves, as though the wood itself keeps a spare heartbeat for the moment you release. In the old stories, the tribes carried nothing but what could outlive them: a weapon, a name, a promise to be made and kept in the shadow of a treetop and a dusk-breath village. This is not merely a tool of war; it is a relic of survival whispered into the wind, a talisman for those who hunter-walk between life and something far older. In gameplay terms, the Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Blood feels like a blade that is also a story. It lightens the pull of the draw, allowing quick, precise shots that cut into packs before they even reorganize. Its enchantment, subtle at first, seems to reward a patient hunter—the moment you land a bleed on a target, the bow’s whispers flare, briefly weaving a crimson halo that intensifies your next impact or sets up follow-up shots. Used by rangers who move with the rhythm of patrol, it favors quick strikes, disciplined pacing, and a willingness to let fate tilt toward careful, surgical damage over brute force. The bow’s aura seems to draw on the killer’s own blood to empower its next breath, a narrative thread that makes you feel the world’s violence as a shared, living memory. Market days add their own layer to the tale. I watched a hawker slide the Carrion Tribal Bow toward a curious traveler at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over price as if chiseling a memory into a ledger. The tag bore a price that rested in the mid-silver range, a figure we both knew would drift with stories told and barter made. The trader leaned in, tapping a knuckle on the wood, speaking more of forecast and fortune than of numbers, and the buyer nodded, seeing not only a weapon but a doorway to a larger chapter—one where every hunt, every ambush, and every whispered legend could be carried in a single, blood-warmed arc. So the Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Blood remains, not merely as gear but as rumor made tangible—an instrument that binds the hunter’s craft to a world that mourns and remembers, one release of iron and bone at a time.