Fused Longbow

The Fused Longbow sits in the sunlit corner of a riverside workshop, its limbs carved from a single slab of storm-dark ash, veins of silver inlay tracing the wood like river currents after a rain. The grip is wrapped in tanned hide that has molded to a hunter's hand, the oil giving it a soft gloss. The bowstring hums—a pale blue filament, almost a whisper of frost—when you draw it. Along the riser, runes are etched in a careful lattice, not gaudy but purposeful, each glyph signaling a vow: precise strike, unyielding focus. The Fused Longbow's tip glints with a faint ember glow, a hint that the wood is fused with something alchemical, something that tightens the weapon's purpose without making it loud. Old stories claim it was tempered in the high furnace of a Durmand Priory smith, fused with dragon-glass essence to endure sieges and cold nights. Some say the arrow it fires carries a memory, a trace of the hunter who first wielded it; others insist its magic is gentler, letting a marksman whisper more damage from the same breath. The bow feels almost alive when you steady your stance, as if the world itself is listening for the rhythm of your shot. The arrows are light, but the power it channels is deliberate, drawing strength from the archer's patience rather than from sheer force. In practice, it rewards careful aim: one clean shot can turn the balance of a skirmish, thinning a crowd before they reach your flank. If you glimpse the faint glow along the riser, you sense the many hands that tested it before you. On the field, this is the kind of weapon that makes a backline feel necessary again—scouts and engineers who dodge in and out of cover find it a trustworthy companion. Its fuse of alchemical energy means a shot can bite into armor and leave a residual burn, or shiver through cloth and mail with a subtle shock that keeps foes honest about their pace. The longer draw and steadier recoil help maintain pressure during a long volley, and its precision tilts fights toward those who practice patience over impulse. In river-town bazaars, the price tag drifts like a thought in the wind. Saddlebag Exchange is where such talk lands, a seasoned merchant haggle over a polished hilt and a moonlit ledger, the odds of a quick sale improving if you bring a tale as well as a target. There, a well-worn Fused Longbow might fetch around 18 to 22 silver, depending on the buyer’s need and the memory of its lore. Maybe that is the bow’s greatest claim: not just a tool for piercing enemies, but a thread through which stories travel. Each shot writes a line in a larger chronicle—the hunter who survived the siege, the caravan that bartered for protection, the trader who kept hope alive by keeping such a weapon in circulation. When it rests on the shoulder and the world narrows to a whisper, the Fused Longbow seems to remember all of it, and the archer becomes part of the story again. Its legend travels with every sale, and in quiet markets the bow keeps its memory alive as it passes from hand to hand.