Rabid Soft Wood Longbow

The Rabid Soft Wood Longbow rests on a sun-bleached table, its limbs lean and flexible as a hunter’s sigh. The wood, pale enough to glow in candlelight, bears a fine, almost honeyed grain that runs like a map of old trails. Small fissures line the surface, not flaws but memories—the kind you only notice when you run a finger along it and feel the bow’s quiet heartbeat. A subtle resin gloss beads at the joints, catching the light with a faint, greenish shimmer that seems almost animal in its sheen. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from seasons of use, and etched along the underside are runes that twist like ivy, a reminder of craft, patience, and the folk stories of a certain wild kin who whispered to wood until it learned to listen. The string, taut and silvered with use, sings a crisp note when plucked, a sound that makes a listener think of a hunter’s breath held just before the first step. Lore says the bow was carved from a soft wood that grew along the edge of a forest known for its rabid winds and half-told legends. The rabid spirit in the tale isn’t a beast to be tamed but a memory—the moment a hunter chose precision over brute force, choosing to bend the world with a patient draw rather than a loud shout. Whoever wielded it believed the wood learned to anticipate its user’s aims, to wait for the moment when a target pauses, then grants the arrow a moment of mercy followed by certainty. It’s the sort of weapon that seems to carry a hunter’s lullaby and a dawn chorus all at once, as if the bow itself is listening for a kind of truth in the air before the shot is released. In the field, the Rabid Soft Wood Longbow feels like an extension of your own quiet rhythm. Its shots travel with a clean line, arrows tracing a path that seems to stitch distance to purpose. For a careful archer, it rewards patient aim, rewarding where the gaze lingers and the arm remains steady. It isn’t a brute’s instrument but a storyteller’s—every draw a sentence, every release a syllable that finishes with a decisive period. With the right coatings and arrows—the kind that bite lightly into air and target to leave a whisper of flight—the bow becomes a conduit for momentum: a sudden poke of wind, a feint that paves the way for a clean, punctuating strike. Its balance makes it forgiving enough for mid-range skirmishes and nimble enough to pivot when the corridor of a battle closes. Prices drift through the market like rumor, and on a crowded morning you’ll hear the familiar crackle of leather against wood as traders haggle. At Saddlebag Exchange, a cautious dealer once priced a Rabid Soft Wood Longbow at a few silver coins, but the haggle could stretch to more, depending on the buyer’s resolve and the bow’s visible patience. A bid for this particular piece might settle around a modest silver-plus, a price that reflects both its beauty and its bite—the kind of balance a hunter learns to live by. When the sun slips behind the pines and the path grows quiet again, the bow’s tale remains, as if the wood itself keeps watch over the next chase, the next story, the next shot that will find its mark.