Assassin's Destroyer Longbow

Assassin's Destroyer Longbow rests in the shade, its limbs slender and curved like a raven's beak, carved from night-black heartwood that seems to drink the light. Silver veins wind along the belly, catching a pale glint as if they were threads of moonlight drawn through a loom. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, stitched with a thread of ash-gray and a small, skull-shaped buckle that hints at its kinship with the shadows. The string, taut and singing, creaks when the bow is lifted, a sound like distant bells in a quiet harbor. On the very tip a rune is etched in frost-blue stone, while a narrow inlay of carved bone runs the length of the limbs, telling a patient story of murder, omens, and the price of silence. It feels alive with history, as if every hunter who held it added a line to its legend. Lore swirls around the weapon like mist. It is said to have been tempered in the shadows by a guild of moonlit scavengers, traded from hand to hand through clandestine markets until a quiet name—Assassin’s—stuck to it. The weapon is less a tool of brute force than a whisper in the rain, designed to strike from cover, to release a single perfect shot that shatters a guard’s awareness and leaves no trace. The stories insist the arrows it favors bite with poison, bleed with a cunning precision, and vanish into the same darkness from which they emerged. Even the wood seems to remember every error and every mercy, murmuring to the wielder if patience is kept and the breath is held. In practice, the longbow is a companion to the patient hunter, a partner for ambushes that hinge on timing and distance. It rewards patience more than brute speed: step between shadows, rise on a sill of stone, draw the bow as you would a vow, release as the target begins to turn. A careful shot can peel away a guard before alarms ripple through the camp. When paired with the right traits and the hunter’s own discipline, it becomes a thread in a larger pursuit, threading through light and dark, turning small advantages into a tide of control in skirmishes and raids. Prices drift in the markets as if the night itself is bargaining with the day. I heard a dealer at Saddlebag Exchange whisper that the bow’s price is steep—a few dozen gold, perhaps, depending on the hush around it and the willingness to trade. A curious traveler slid it across the counter, trading a cache of rare runes and a weathered map for the chance to carry its weight again. The exchange, crowded with traders and scavengers, hums around such deals, quietly shaping destinies with the swing of a string and the shape of a ledger. So the Assassin’s Destroyer Longbow remains, in the hands of someone who understands its language—eyes that see the gaps in light, hands that can coax a deadly quiet from a night that never rests.