Giver's Green Wood Short Bow

First light catches the Giver's Green Wood Short Bow in the palm of a worker's hand, turning the varnish to a soft jade glow. The wood hums with a living grain, the limbs compact and sturdy, built for rapid, precise strokes rather than long arcs. The surface wears a satin sheen, smooth to the touch, with knotted grain that tells a story—tiny ridges like riverbeds, a curl at the tips where horn inlays catch the light. Along the grip runes are etched, patient rather than harsh, a whisper of the lore that gave it its name: the Giver. Carved leaves in pale brass trace its length, a green motif that nuzzles against the string's tautness. When drawn, the bow's pulse is honest, preferring action that serves, not glory. Locals speak of its maker's creed: a craftsman who traveled from village to village, offering not just weaponry but a share of the spoils gleaned from the road's dangers, hence the 'Giver' tag. The green wood is said to come from a sapling spared during drought, blessed by the forest, and the bow's vibrations carry mercy into every shot. In practice, it asks for a mind that values balance. It lends itself to quick, practiced fingers—the sort who stay unseen as they slip an arrow from the string, take a breath, and release. In skirmishes and patrols, it shines: light enough to carry on long treks, reliable enough to peel away the outer guard before the main line breaks. Its arrows feel like whispers—fast, accurate, with weathered patience that lets a ranger thread shots through tangled brush and into a target's heart. The Giver's Green Wood favors careful aim over brute force, rewarding the hunter who knows when to stay back and when to step forward, who respects the terrain as a partner rather than a foe. In the market lanes, a stall under a battered awning catches the late sun. A clerk from Saddlebag Exchange sets the bow on a cloth, tracing the leaves with a finger and telling a traveler how the price reflects its history as much as its timber. Traders shift to the rhythm of footfalls, weighing gold against stories—the yarn about villages saved by the craft, the songs the bow's string is said to have tuned during winter nights. The Saddlebag Exchange becomes a yardstick for value, where this bow moves not just as steel and sinew but as a piece of memory, a bargain between road-weary hands and a craftsman's quiet pride. Some buyers bargain for a personal oath: to carry the Giver's bow not merely as a tool but as a pledge to defend the vulnerable, to keep watch during the long quiet hours between dusk and dawn. Whenever I see the Giver's Green Wood Short Bow slip from its cloth, I hear the forest leaning in—a reminder that things intended to help carry more than physics; they carry intention. A weapon can be a giver's gift, a line drawn toward mercy in a world that tests the line every day. For those who walk the road with a purpose, it feels like a quiet vow whispered to the wind.