Hunter's Dredge Short Bow

Hunter's Dredge Short Bow gleams with river-dark wood, its limbs wrapped in stitched dredge-hide and inlaid with pale bone runes that catch the lamplight in the cave-town air. A slender notch is carved into the grip where the hunter’s thumb rests, and the string seems taut with a whisper of patience. The bow’s finish is matte, as if worn by many hands that learned to draw without hurry. Its name is etched in a line of runes along the lower limb, a small sign of kinship with those who live beneath the surface, where dredge markets pulse with a second sun of ore dust and echoing footsteps. Legends say a lone hunter wandered into the dredge warrens, following a quarry the surface hunters could not see: a silent deer that moved with the echo of the earth itself. There, he traded stories and blade-forged advice with a smith who worked with the bones of the tunnels. He carved the bow as a gift to friends who could listen to the underground and still find their target. The weapon bears the weight of that bargain: a balance of stealth and speed, a weapon that asks a hunter to wait for the right breath before letting the arrow slip. Gamewise, this short bow rewards patience and precision. It favors quick repositioning and clean shots at mid-range, letting you press the line between camouflage and contact. Its flight is crisp, the arrow arc forgiving enough for a confident retreat, yet sharp enough to puncture a startled creature’s hide when you finally draw a bead. In a caravan defense, the Hunter’s Dredge Short Bow can turn a chalk-sealed doorway into a corridor of consequence, letting a hunter keep the pursuers at bay while the backline crews stall the chargers. Market scene: I drift into the harbor settlement where Saddlebag Exchange sprawls in a smoky courtyard. The vendor’s stall is crowded with plundered quivers and leather pouches; the bow rests on a hay-stuffed bale, a price tag scribbled on parchment beside it. The price shifts with mood and rumor, the sort of thing that changes with demand, with the season, with the ore’s luck. The Saddlebag keeper leans in, tracing the rune on the grip with calloused finger, murmuring that a few silver and a favor owed could seal the deal. I trade stories for a day or two of credit, and the bow becomes more than metal and wood: it becomes a passport to the tunnels, a reminder that value travels as stories do, and that some purchases you carry not just on your belt, but in your memory. In this world, the Hunter’s Dredge Short Bow is a thread through the fabric of the underground and the street-level markets; a weapon whose lore outlives any single skirmish and whose windings are the paths between cavern, caravan, and campfire. And in every draw, you hear the echoes of those tunnels, the bargaining cries of the market, and the hush of a hunter listening to the earth. That is the life of the Hunter’s Dredge Short Bow.