Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Vision

Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Vision rests against a weathered post, its limbs dark with resin and the grain snarled like old roots. The grip is wrapped in tanned hide that has worn to a soft, pliable patina, and bone inlays thread a pattern of carrion birds circling a central, eye-like talisman. When the light catches it just so, the bow seems to breathe, the wood tasting of ash and rain, the string singing with a faint, dry rasp. The carvings tell a story in small, relentless marks: scavenger gods, watching eyes, a tribe that measured time by the hour of the hunt rather than the hour of the sun. It looks like something found at the edge of a campfire: practical, scarred, and somehow holy at once. The texture speaks of hands that knew feverish nights and rough dawns alike—slick lacquer where the resin has seeped into the grain, rough patches where the hide has softened under a lifetime of grip. The bone inlays gleam when a candle flees a corner of a room, and the overall silhouette is lean, built for speed and quiet, not for show. lore ties this bow to carrion-harvesters who respected the living only enough to learn from them; the tribe believed the instrument captured a fraction of the world’s hidden visions, a momentary glimpse of what might come when the hunter pressed for a true aim. It is said the bow hums with those memories, a whispering companion to any hunter who trusts its counsel rather than their own ego. In practice, its significance in the field feels like a companion that never tires, a tool that makes stealth and timing a little more forgiving. The short bow’s draw is quick, the shots come faster than a heartbeat, and the Vision-touched enchantment—whatever exact magic hides in its core—seems to tilt perception in the moment of release. An observer might notice that targets in the brush appear a heartbeat clearer, silhouettes stand out against dull greens, and a hunter’s aim seems to hold a fraction steadier in the split second before the arrow takes flight. It’s not simply force; it’s a subtle alignment of sight and intention, a quiet advantage for scouts skirting the edge of a ruined encampment or for those who stalk through the shadow-dusted corridors of a ruined fort. Market stories about this bow drift along campfires and caravan routes, where the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a careful inventory of trinkets, tattered maps, and rare finds. Prices for such a piece drift with the seasons, the demand spiked by whispers of its “vision-keeping” edge and cooled by less certain promises. A hunter might trade a day’s catch, a length of cured leather, or a stubborn map torn from a weathered ledger to seal the deal, but more often the bow travels with a seller who knows its true value is the difference between a clean shot and a misstep into a thorny fate. Traders speak in hushed tones about the bow’s owner, about the eyes it seems to borrow for a moment, and about how those who wield it learn to listen, not merely to the arrow’s flight but to the world’s quiet, patient counsel.