Carrion Verdant Bow of Corruption

The Carrion Verdant Bow of Corruption gleams with a sick, translucent green, its limbs carved from wind-worn wood and pale, bone-like sinew stretched taut along the curve. A thin film of verdant moss crawls like tiny rivers over the grip, catching every lamplight with a dull, merciless glow. In the creases between the bow’s limbs, faint runes curl and fade, as if the forest itself breathed and forgot. The string hums when drawn, a low, almost hungry note that unsettles birds and promises something unclean in the act of release. If you tilt it to the right angle, you can glimpse a faint, living bloom pressed beneath a veil of resin—an unsettling reminder that this weapon is not merely steel and wood, but a bridge to a different kind of appetite. Lore threads into the object as naturally as the relics of a village market are threaded into its shelves. They say the bow was forged in the green heart of a plague-scarred wood, by hands that understood both woodcraft and decay. It drinks rot from the air and gives back something venomous and precise: the arrows carve shadows, and each hit drips a trace of corruption that lingers in the wound like a seed waiting to sprout into misfortune. Hunters whisper that the Verdant Bow was once cradled by a ranger who walked between life and rot, a caretaker of the realm’s waning green and its stubborn, creeping blight. To carry it is to carry a rumor—that the forest does not forgive, but it can instruct those who listen to its warnings. In the field, its significance unfolds like a larger, darker story. An arrow released from the Verdant Bow of Corruption finds its mark with a whisper of green mist, triggering a cascade of condition effects that can tilt a skirmish in a heartbeat. The weapon feeds on life, siphoning a measure of vitality with each strike and arranging it into a tighter, more dangerous web of poisons and corruption. Players who lean into disease, bleed, and poison builds can coax the bow into a murderous rhythm: a shot, a swarm of vines that lunge at the next target, and a lingering aura that makes retreat expensive for anyone who dares to break line of sight. It is the kind of tool that makes a tense ambush feel fated, as if the world itself had decided to tilt toward decay just long enough for a single, decisive shot. The market comes into the tale in a quiet, coin-chimed way. In a damp corner of Saddlebag Exchange, a tag clings to a rough hemp cord, bearing the bow’s name and a price that makes traders pause—an amount that makes sense only to those who understand the risk of courting rot. The asking price sits at a baroque height, yet there’s a note of negotiation in the air, a glint of opportunity in a buyer’s eye. Whether it’s a measured trade or a reckless gamble, the exchange is a waypoint in the bow’s larger pilgrimage—between collector’s keepsake and weapon of creeping consequence, between myth and the hand that wields it. So the Carrion Verdant Bow of Corruption travels through pockets of shadow and sunlit ruin, a green thread in a wider tapestry. It is both relic and weapon, memory and omen, and the world it visits shifts a little under its creeping, beautiful bite.