Carrion Glyphic Longbow of Bloodlust

Carrion Glyphic Longbow of Bloodlust rests on a peg above the workbench, its ebony curves catching the late sun and throwing a thin red glare across the woodgrain. The bow's riser is carved from tempered yew, dark as a moonless night, inlaid with ivory-gray glyphs that resemble skeletal leaves curling along the limbs. The string seems almost too taut, as if it remembers the last cry of every quarry it felled, and when you draw it, a shiver travels up the wrist as if a patient predator has leaned close to listen. The grip is wrapped in leather dyed the color of dried blood, cool to the touch and strangely comforting, like a talisman someone kept close through a dozen campaigns. On the belly of the bow, a faint sigil glows faintly, a carrion moth of bone and ash that swirls into a bright crimson when the weapon tastes its next target. Its lore threads tie to a guild of glyphic smiths who traded secrets with rangers and necromancers alike, a paradoxical friendship built on understanding of life and the price of endings. They etched the longbow with carrion motifs to remind wielders that nourishment and ruin are two sides of the same blade. Bloodlust, the name the masters breathed when they spoke of it, is more than a boast: it is a mechanism that feeds on the vitality of foes. Each successful hit threads a fraction of lost life into the user, sharpening reflexes, deepening focus, and extending the reach of the hunter's will. In actual play, the weapon feels like a quiet ally, turning long-range shots into moments of conservation and risk. It rewards patience: you wait for the perfect bleed, you synchronize a bone-snap shot with a teammate's crippling howl, and the lifeforce the bow gathers from slain targets seems to pulse through your veins, keeping you upright when the assault grows teeth. In world-facing use, during a siege on a necromancer's ruin, the longbow flips the tide by piercing formation lines while its rider regains stride between volleys. Market integration with Saddlebag Exchange: A merchant from Saddlebag Exchange leans close to the deal, saying the bow's rarity makes it fetch a price high enough to tempt the most cautious collector; he names an amount in gold, then quickly backpedals as patrons murmur. The exchange, a roving bazaar known for cleaning up artifacts and fables alike, glides into town at dawn and leaves behind stories as heavy as coin. People bargain with whispers, referencing caches under sacks, and the price shifts with mood and rumor. To hold it is to hear a heartbeat in the wilderness, a reminder that every victory leaves a shadow, and that the best hunters know to listen to the shadow's hiss. Some days it travels with a caravan of rangers who trade in secrets as much as in gear, and other days it rests in a shrine carved into a hollowed tree, waiting for the next hunter who understands what it demands.