Carrion Verdant Bow of Water

Carrion Verdant Bow of Water rests in the half-light of a harbor shed, its limbs carved from driftwood that remembers last night’s rain and bound with a sap-gloss that glimmers like dew on a leaf. The bowstring hums with a cool, almost liquid warmth, a whisper of glassy moisture that beads along the curve as if the wood wears a thin cloak of mist. The grip is wrapped in leather that has the pale patina of time, stitched with threads the color of fern fronds. On the belly of the weapon, a carving—an entwined vine spiraling around a pale bone—tells the tale of two forces meeting at river’s edge: carrion’s gray memory and verdant renewal. The finish catches light with a subtle luminescence, and when you tilt it toward the sun, it seems to draw a small, blue ripple from the air, as if the bow itself keeps a secret current within. There is lore stitched into every scratch along the finish, a legend about a ranger who wandered the water’s edge when floodwaters rose and new paths opened between ruined docks and the living marsh. They say the Carrion Verdant Bow of Water was shaped not merely to strike but to listen—a weapon that learned the language of rain, of clinging moss, of spent shells and returned fish. The verdant tint isn’t just color; it’s a memory of green life nudging through decay, a reminder that even carrion can feed new growth when water finds its balance. The carved bone speaks of vow and vigil, of time spent waiting for the river to decide where to flow next. In a world where every fight is a small weather pattern, this bow carries a thread of that weather inside it, a promise that the next shot could redraw the current. In the hands of a practiced archer, the bow becomes both compass and chorus. Draw and release, and a shaft of emerald light traces a short arc through the air, kissing the target with a spray of cool mist that lingers like afterrain. The projectiles, said to be tempered with river-water magic, pierce through light cover with a grace that feels almost inevitable, then leak a trace of liquid energy that smolders briefly on contact. In practical terms, it complements builds that weave control of the battlefield with sustain: shots that slow or obscure, followed by healing or cleansing pulses from allies who ride the water’s edge. It’s a weapon that asks you to see the fight as a continual turning of the weather, not a single storm. Market tales echo in the whispers of docks and market stalls, where the Saddlebag Exchange is known to trade hard-won gear with patient, weathered hands. A recent seller, with salt on their beard and a careful eye for value, spoke of the Bow’s price as a barometer, rising with the river’s mood and the demand of guardians who patrol the floodplain. In their ledger, a fair price could sit at a gleaming gold coin or two, perhaps tempered by a touch of jade and the seller’s own story. The exchange hums with this kind of arithmetic—worth determined not by loud brag or grand catalog, but by where the river wants to go next and who carries the courage to stand at its edge. So the Carrion Verdant Bow of Water remains, a green-kept truth pressed into wood and myth. A weapon that wears the river’s memory, and a steady invitation to walk the bank where decay feeds life, and life, in turn, carves out new paths for those who listen closely enough.