Apothecary's Elder Wood Short Bow

The Apothecary's Elder Wood Short Bow gleams with a sunset amber finish, its limbs carved from elder wood and sanded to a velvet smoothness that catches the light with every curve. The grip is wrapped in brass-threaded leather, and the string rests under a whisper-thin resin that hums when drawn taut. Bas-relief inlays trace faint herbs along the riser, a nod to the shop where tinctures met timber, and the bow’s name is burned into the grip in careful script that rustles like parchment in cool wind. Lore says this bow was forged for the apothecary’s guard, a keeper who tended plague gardens and whispered to roots as if they were patients; elder wood remembers the scent of rain and resin, and so it steadies the hand of whoever wields it. In the field, its significance becomes tangible: the short bow’s compact size invites quick shots and nimble footing, ideal for skirmishes among hedges where herbs are guarded by thorn and rumor. Arrows fly true with a crisp snap, fletched in dark feathers that catch light and tipped with tempered steel from a shared lore of plant cures. It pairs especially well with alacrity skills and quick repositioning, letting you shoot, retreat, and shoot again before the field closes. A healer-wary ranger might lean into this weapon’s precision, threading in condition-based shots to peel away a foe’s defenses while keeping distance from the melee. The bow favors patience—draw slowly, listen for the resin’s whisper, and release with a breath that folds into the wind like a leaf. It is less brute force than a tool for careful orchestration, letting a field be saved or a supply run through a corridor of ambush. And the world responds to it. Markets hum with the glint of wood and polish, and the Saddlebag Exchange—a sun-warmed stall where traders lay out their wares on layered cloth—often has one of these elders waiting for a new keeper. A seller will point to a tidy stat line or a rune etched near the grip and speak in hushed terms about what the next buyer seeks: Power for the draw, Precision for the long walk, or simply a good, true balance. The price drifts with the season, sometimes a handful of silver for a modest roll, sometimes a gold-or-two for coveted combinations. I walked away with a sense of lineage as much as a weapon: the bow is a thread in a larger story of healers, scouts, and seamstresses who mend wounds and roads alike. When you shoulder it and knock an arrow, the world tilts toward that memory of the apothecary’s garden—where every plant has a purpose and every shot has a story. If you listen closely, the bow seems to murmur of quiet cures and quiet journeys, inviting you to lend it to someone who needs a path through the season. In that exchange between wood and will, the village breathes easier and the road widens. Even so.