Sentinel's Elder Wood Longbow

Sentinel's Elder Wood Longbow rests on the cutting table like a relic just roused from a forest vigil, its slender limbs curving in a quiet, drinkable arc. The elder wood is smooth as a river stone, the grain a tightly braided map of years, every ring a whispered season. A dry, honeyed patina coats the surface, catching light with a patient glow, while the grip is wrapped in braided sinew and leather that fit the hand as if the bow had learned the shape of a single hunter’s palm. Along the limb runes are burned in careful procession— sigils of watchfulness, of wind, of clearing shadows—etched deep enough to catch the fingernail and hold it. The string, taut as a decision in the heat of pursuit, sighs with a quiet note when drawn, a sound almost companionable, like a bow string greeting a friend after a long pause. Lore clings to the elder wood in a way a rumor clings to a doorway—not loud, but undeniable. It’s said the Sentinels once assembled their watchers beneath a vaulted canopy, where this wood grew from a single, fallen trunk that endured a blight and a blessing in the same season. The bow’s name is a pledge as much as a label: Sentinel’s, for the guardians who kept the gate between grove and danger; Elder Wood, for the venerable tree that refused to yield its memory to decay. When the bow is looked at in the pale dawn, legends claim you can hear the forest breathe through the sigils, a soft rustle that sounds suspiciously like hope. In the field, the weapon proves its worth not merely by the strength of the draw but by the trust it seems to place in a shooter’s aim. The longbow’s balance feels as if the wind itself had learned to walk with it, steady and direct, every arrow leaving with crisp momentum and a clean, telling crack against air. Arrows fired from it cut through light armor as if whispering a truth to the target, and those who have hunted with it swear by its patient forgiveness—an arrow that can be guided to a distant mark, yet never seems to hurry the hunter. It pairs naturally with a ranger’s speed and a watchful guardian’s sense of timing, rewarding patience and steady breath over reckless force. Its resonance in the hands of a practiced shot is almost a language of its own, a dialogue between wood, string, and weather. Markets don’t forget such stories, either. In the open lanes near the Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned trader handles the bow with the reverence of a librarian turning a rare tome. He tests the bow’s response to a few measured nocks, listening for that telltale whistle in the air when an arrow flies true. The price is quoted in gold, yet the exchange dances around more than coins—barter stories, trade goods, and remembered threads of past hunts weave into the tally. A hunter might trade a night-hide quiver and a handful of amber resin, or settle for a neat bag of silver and a promise of future favors. The deal arrives as a narrative itself, a passing of time from the hunter’s hands to the market’s ledger, and back again when a new owner learns the bow’s cautionary song. By night, when the firelight flickers over its polished surface, the Sentinel’s Elder Wood Longbow seems less a tool and more a witness—a quiet companion for whoever chooses to walk the line between shadow and shot, between memory and motion.