Malign Glyphic Longbow of Agony

Malign Glyphic Longbow of Agony rested across the merchant's table, its limbs carved from old ebony, smooth as black ice, with runes spiraling along like ivy burned into wood. The grip was wrapped in tanned hide, scarred by years of use, and the string hummed faintly when brushed, as if the bow kept time with a hidden heartbeat. Garnets in the nock caught the light, throwing little red sparks that seemed to bore into a passerby’s eyes. The glyphs themselves glowed a pale, feverish green, a pulse of magic that suggested the weapon was not simply crafted but bound—bound to the memory of a hunter who bled for every shot, bound to the agony it could unleash on a target. The lore spoke in whispers: a longbow once carved from the last tree in a grove that vanished under a plague, a pact sealed between artisan and spirit to turn sorrow into steel. In the field, that sorrow becomes argument with the enemy's shield. Its shots travel with a hush, a whisper over grass and stone, and when they strike, they feel like a little storm has broken inside the foe. The bow's signature lie in its glyphic enchantment: a surge of Agony with each draw that claws at the target's resolve, layering a cruel bleed of nature's retribution. It rewards patience—long-range darts that harry a frontline, then a calculated release that snaps the distance shut. For the hunter who keeps to the edge of the fight, the Malign Glyphic Longbow of Agony feels like a partner with a stubborn conscience, counting every shot, chastening the careless, giving rhythm to a skirmish that could collapse on a single decisive moment. Pricing is never simple in these corridors of barter and rumor. A stall at Saddlebag Exchange will tell you the go-to numbers—gold coins that shift with the season, with the buyer's appetite, with weathered stories of the bow's previous owners. A well-used specimen might drop into a bargain, while a pristine example could fetch a premium, especially when the glyphs glow with quiet intensity. The market thrives on stories as much as on steel; a bow becomes a passport, a memoryable survivor that has walked through sieges and night patrols, a talisman scavenged from a battlefield and offered anew to a different kind of war. And so the Malign Glyphic Longbow of Agony leaves the table as a traveler, slipping into a quiver and then into the hands of a new keeper. It is not merely a weapon, but a link in a chain of hunts, a reminder that every arrow carries a story, every glyph a reminder, and every draw a choice between mercy and vengeance. Some would say its balance is a quiet challenge, a test of whether restraint can coexist with the urge to strike. In pauses between patrols, old owners recount the bow’s trials—the ambush where a single arrow redirected a skirmish, the mercy shown to a fleeing scout, the scars it leaves on memory itself.