Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Accuracy

Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Accuracy sits on a weathered driftwood rack, its curves like the first kiss of a crow’s wing. The limbs are carved from stormwood, a grain that glints with a pale amber sheen when the light catches it just so, and the bowstring, spun from horsehair and resin, sings faintly if you coax it with a steady hand. Inlays of bone run along the riser, forming a jagged, ritual sigil that locals swear echoes with the old carrion-tide stories—the scavenger clans that haunted the plague-riddled edges of the map. A grip wrapped in tanned leather tells of countless hands that have held it, steady and sure, while a carved carrion bird crouches beneath the notch, its eye polished to a dull ember by years of field use. It oozes hunter’s memory and dry, dusty trails, as if the bow itself remembers every quarry it ever claimed. The weapon feels lighter than it looks, almost a rumor in your hand, and yet it carries the weight of its lore. Those who prize it speak of Accuracy as more than a stat; it is a promise that each shot will find its mark in the open arc of a skirmish or a whispered stalk through broken hedges and ruined markets. In the hands of a patient ranger, the bow becomes a quiet instructor: aim first, breathe second, let the wind and the old bone-work do the rest. In play, the short bow’s profile favors swift, economical shots, and the Accuracy blessing nudges the odds toward clean, reliable hits even when the terrain shifts underfoot. Hunters tell stories of nights when a single precise bolt kept a party alive through a siege of wolves and bandits, and of dawns when a well-placed shot saved a caravan from a trap that no amount of armor could weather. The bow’s aura—carved teeth along the grip, the totemic bird glancing upward—woven with its performance, makes it feel less a tool and more a companion with a memory for every path you might walk. Markets in the market-city amble with such legends. I found the Carrion Tribal Short Bow of Accuracy tucked among crates of leather and quivers at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders barter stories as much as goods. The tag, pale and worn, whispered a price that reflected both its history and its condition, and the clerks’ fingers brushed the grain as if stroking a friend’s shoulder before a long journey. The negotiation wandered through glances and offers, until a small stack of worn trinkets and a few gold coins changed hands. I traded in a cracked quiver and a dented buckler, receipts of journeys past, and walked away with the bow feeling lighter and heavier all at once—the history of the carrion tribe slipping into my own story as if it had always belonged there. In this world, such a weapon is never merely a weapon; it is a thread in a larger narrative about survival, memory, and the fragile bargains that keep travelers moving through a world that never truly forgives the careless shot.