Rabid Soft Wood Longbow

Rabid Soft Wood Longbow gleams under the market lantern: pale softwood carved with quiet care, the grain curling like a whispered snarl, limbs arched into a clean, deadly S, tips ground to a razor edge, and the string pulled taut with a thin, singing tension. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, each wrap a memory of journeys past, and a small brass ferrule holds a charm—a tiny fang pressed into the wood by a hunter who swore the wood fed on fear and sharpened the mind of whoever held it. When you cradle it, the bow feels almost warm, as if the forest itself exhaled through those original knots and kept this weapon in a patient, waiting mood. Its appearance tells a story before you draw the string. The softwood—lighter than oak, yielding to a steady hand—carries a glow that deepens as the sun slides past the stalls. Along the back, faint runes wink: a hunter’s creed, a pact with the wild, a reminder that the rabid heart of the woods subjects fear to discipline. People say the wood remembers the bite of danger and returns the favor with a clean, fast snap of the release. When the rabid energy of the forest is invoked, the longbow’s arrows seem to cut more surely through wind and armor, striking with a precision that makes even wary ambushers blink and recalibrate their stance. In the world’s daily rhythm, the Rabid Soft Wood Longbow becomes more than a tool; it’s a companion for the road, a witness to deals struck along dusty lanes and across crowded markets. Those who guide caravans or skulk through edge-of-town alleyways favor its lightness for quick, measured shots, the kind that keep a pursuer’s head down while the next volley builds toward a decisive moment. It rewards patience as much as speed: draw, aim, and release with the calm you’d save for a whispered confession, and the wood’s lore seems to tighten your focus, turning a routine crossbowman’s risk into a hunter’s deliberate strike. The lore of the fang-touched grip feeds into that sensation—as if, with every shot, you’re answering a pact written long ago between hunter, beast, and tree. Market life around the bow is a constant hum. Travelers and traders swap tales as they weigh coins and trade goods, and the Saddlebag Exchange—a bustling corridor of stalls and barter—becomes the closest thing to a chorus of the road. There, a trader may lay the Rabid Soft Wood Longbow on a sun-warmed cloth and mention its value in gold pieces, sometimes bargaining down with a silver trinket, or a vial that catches the light like frozen dew. A fair listing hovers around a few gold, depending on wear, provenance, and the stubbornness of the buyer, but the bow’s reputation keeps the price honest enough for dreamers and desperadoes alike. So the Rabid Soft Wood Longbow travels with its owner—through markets, across crossroads, into quiet forests where wind through branches sounds like a soft, approving sigh. It is memory and instrument in the same frame, a weapon that asks you to respect the wood’s restraint while trusting your own heartbeat to decide when the moment is truly ripe to release.