Carrion Verdant Bow of Air

Carrion Verdant Bow of Air rests on a decay-stained plinth, its limbs carved from pale bone that catches the light like dried ivory lacquered in moss. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that has absorbed years of rain, and the bowstring—a whisper-thin weave of sinew—sings faintly when you draw it, a sound you almost mistake for a distant birdcall. The verdant hue seems to live on the surface, a lattice of green veins crawling along the wood as if some slow, patient leaf were breathing inside the barrel. On the bow’s belly, a flock of carrion crows is etched in flight, their wings traced with silver thread, a quiet reminder of rot and renewal coexisting in the same breath. When you lift it, a little storm seems to gather at the tip, as if the bow is always listening for the next gust. Lore, naturally, clings to its edges the way moss clings to stone. It is said to have been forged by a wind-walker who traded bone for breeze, a caravan scout who learned to carve paths through wreck-filled passes by coaxing the air to ferry her arrows along. The “Air” in its name is not only a seam of magic but a vow: every arrow carries a fragment of wind, a push of air that tugs at armor and splits shadows. In the oldest taverns, storytellers whisper that the verdant stain comes from a grove where decay feeds new life, and the bow itself is a hinge between those two seasons—the time when spring tries to reclaim the ruin. In practical terms, the Carrion Verdant Bow of Air is a tool for the patient hunter who wants more than raw power. Its shots carry a light, balletic arc, and the released wind breathes a minor force a step beyond simple lead. On a clean pull, arrows bite with a subtle, kinetic sting—the kind of impact that shudders loose vines from gates and nudges skittish foes off balance. A well-timed charged shot fans the air into a short gust, knocking enemies back and widening the avenue for a follow-up strike. For those who know how to lead their targets, the bow becomes a conductor’s baton, guiding allies into flanks and allowing scouts to thread between pillars of wind and shadow. It isn’t just about damage; it’s about the rhythm of movement—the way wind favors a hunter who knows when to retreat, when to press, and when to stay poised in the eye of a skirmish. As I listened to a vendor recount the bow’s recent history, the tale began to feel less like legend and more like currency. In the Saddlebag Exchange, where wares are weighed as much by the weight of memory as by gold, the price tag shimmered in brass: three gold coins and a jade shard, a sum enough to tempt a caravan of hungry buyers and a bargain hunter’s conscience alike. The tag wasn’t merely a number; it was a ledger of routes, of rivers crossed, of wind-changed days when a hunter learned to rely on a partner who never tires of the horizon. And so the bow sits, a conduit of breath and purpose, waiting for the moment when the air itself will carry a story forward.