Carrion Verdant Short Bow of Air

Carrion Verdant Short Bow of Air rests on a rough oak table, its limbs carved from pale ash and etched with a verdant patina that catches the morning light like dew on a leaf. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather the color of damp fern, worn smooth by years of intimate handling. On the belly of the bow, a delicate relief shows a carrion blossom bending toward a gust of wind, a reminder that decay nourishes growth. The string hums when you draw it, a dry, clean whisper as if a breath were pulled from the air itself. The limbs feel light and springy, as if the bow learned to listen to the wind and pass its message to the archer through a pulse in the bowstring. The weapon carries a quiet, almost conspiratorial aura, as if it were forged in a place where scavengers barter with breeze itself. Folk say the carrion motif is more than decor; it is a philosophy—death returning to the land, feeding seeds that rise after a flood of rain. The Verdant shade hints at renewal, and the Air oath whispered into the wood gives the bow a certain alacrity: it seems to gather momentum in the hands of someone who moves with the weather. In that sense, the Carrion Verdant Short Bow of Air feels less like a tool than a companion on the road, the kind of artifact that chooses a hunter who understands cycles—the quiet passing of rot that fertilizes the next trail. In practice, it suits skirmishers who live by rhythm and restraint. Shots come in bursts, but every pull of the string seems measured to a tempo the wind already knows. Targets at midrange vanish with a clean, almost soundless crack, and the arrow seems to ride a whisper more than a gust, slipping past brush and cover with uncanny ease. It’s the kind of bow that invites a hunter to read the weather as a partner: a slight crosswind can tilt a moment into certainty, a stubborn drizzle can fold distance into a lesson in patience. Its true strength is not raw power but precision and tempo—choreography for a hunter who moves between sunlit gaps in the trees and shadowed doorways of ruined keeps. Market rumors often follow these kinds of relics, the way wind follows a hillside. When a traveler reached the dusty stalls near the river market, the talk turned to what it would take to own such a thing for good—how many hunts, how many days of careful tracking, and how much rain-soiled travel. It was at Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-lit stall known for fair trade and a keen sense of a blade’s worth, where the deal finally landed. The vendor weighed the bow in his gloved hands, murmuring that two gold coins and a small, polished jade bead would carry the price. The hunter nodded, thinking of the long road ahead and the next encounter that would test the wind’s patience. The transaction felt less like commerce than a continuation of the bow’s story: a passing from one steward of the air to another, a renewal of breath within a green-tinted wood. So the Carrion Verdant Short Bow of Air travels on, its lore wedded to the rhythm of the road. It is a weapon that remembers decay as fertile ground, that listens to the wind, and that quietly invites its owner to move with the weather, to hunt the moment as it passes, and to keep faith with the land that feeds both hunter and prey alike.