Carrion Glyphic Short Bow of Agony

Carrion Glyphic Short Bow of Agony gleams under a flickering lantern, its compact limbs carved from pale ash and bound with weathered wolf-hide that creaks softly as you lift it. The riser is inlaid with bone-white glyphs—vultures etched in a slow, patient hand—bone dust catching the light like tiny stars. The string is a taut thread of sinew, and when you pluck it, a sharp, dry note cuts the room, as if a distant creature sighs in relief or warning. The grip is cool and slightly rough, worn from years of steady hands shooting through dust and rain, a reminder that this bow has known long rides, rough markets, and the hushed quiet of dawn silhouettes in camp. On the leather sheath hangs a bronze tag, etched with the name of a collector who traveled through warped caravans and whispered legends of the carrion cults, a hint that this weapon does more than merely kill; it binds memory to metal. The glyphic runes along the limbs pulse with a muted green when drawn, as if the bow itself breathes in sympathy with the hunter who wields it. Its aura smells faintly of mold and resin, of old rainwater in a hollow log, of stories left to stiffen in the joints of time. Lorekeepers speak of the carrion glyphs as relics of a shadowed pact between hunter and necromantic patrons: a pact that granted speed and silence to the archer who could coax life from a dead tree and make it sing the moment a drawstring sings back. In that telling, the Carrion Glyphic Short Bow of Agony is less a tool of sport and more a conduit—an instrument through which quiet corners of the world hear the thrum of consequence. In the field, its uses feel like a whispered plan rather than a loud charge. Short bows are lean, they snap into action with surprising speed, and this one especially favors hit-and-run tactics: rapid shots, clean draws, and a trail of lingering pain that lingers on the target. Its “Agony” in the name isn’t merely flourish; it’s a discipline. Arrows from this bow often carry a venomous bleed or a corrosive poison, paired with precision shots that punish exposed flank and soften defenses for those who follow. In skirmishes or tight ambushes, the glyphic runes fuse with the hunter’s intent, turning a single flawless aim into a cascade of pains that echo through the ranks like a grim tally of the day’s toll. It’s a weapon for someone who respects quiet, who knows that telling distance between foe and survivor is measured not in noise but in the breath held before the release. Market lore threads the story through a bustling town street, where leather-stacked stalls lean toward the light. I paused at Saddlebag Exchange, where a clerk’s hands moved with practiced ease as he weighed the bow against memory and duty. The tag showed a price that spoke of rarity and risk, a sum that turned heads and loosened purses, depending on the day’s mood and demand. The exchange breathes life into such relics, turning legends into barter and back again, letting a hunter’s legend ripple through the market like a dropped stone in a quiet pond. So the Carrion Glyphic Short Bow of Agony remains not merely a weapon but a companion to wandering stories—the sort that begin in a campfire, arc upward toward a glint of moonlight on ash and bone, and finally settle into the quiet certainty that some legends are meant to be carried, not celebrated.