Assassin's Elder Wood Short Bow

Assassin's Elder Wood Short Bow gleams with a quiet, almost whispered light, its limbs carved from elder wood whose grain swirls like smoke frozen in time. The grip sits smooth and cool in the hand, a gentle contour worn by countless fingers, the wood’s dark lines etched with patient care. The bowstring, taut and pale as a moonlit thread, carries the memory of every draw you’ve ever known, while copper rivets wink along the riser, catching light in quick, uneasy glints. A shallow runic band runs across the belly of the bow, not flashy to the eye, but when the night air hums with a distant shadowed rhythm, the sigil seems to breathe—almost as if the weapon remembers the hands that once slipped it from a sheath. It feels lighter than its weight, and heavier with purpose. Lore clings to it in a way that makes the wood seem to murmur when the river is low. Elder wood is valued for resilience and a calm you can hear if you listen hard enough—an attribute adored by those who stalk the edge of silence. The Assassin’s Elder Wood Short Bow is said to have been forged for a circle of silent watchers, guardians of thresholds between dusk and dawn. In the old tales, the bow carries a whisper of moonlit nights and narrow escapes, a reminder that power can be quiet and deadly at the same time. The glyph along its back seems to recount a story in a language of shadows, a reminder that the hunter’s mercy, if it exists at all, is earned in the small, careful moments between shots. In the world where it moves, the bow is more than a tool; it is a companion to those who render danger with precision. Its short reach honors the art of swift, clean engagement, allowing a user to dispatch threats before they become louder than a whisper. It rewards patience and timing: a well-placed shot that leaves the target reeling, followed by a quick, practiced re-nock and another breath held in reserve. For an assassin who prefers to keep their tracks narrow, it is a partner in the dance of stealth—an instrument whose tone is a crack of quiet, not a trumpet blast. When drawn under a canopy of pines or along a shadowed city wall, it seems to promise a way through rather than a way out, a way to move through danger with grace rather than brute force. Market talk threads through the tale as well, because no relic remains static in a living world. At Saddlebag Exchange, the bow’s price is a subject of quiet debates and hurried nods, a balance between rarity and demand. A tag there might read in careful script that the elder wood carries a premium—two gold and some silver, perhaps, depending on the moon’s mood and the vendor’s memory of its last wielder. Traders swap stories about its resilience, its steady draw, and the way its shadow seems to cling to the wrist just long enough to remind a wielder what is at stake. The bargain, when it comes, feels less like a purchase and more like a turn in a larger story—one that will later be told in the grip of a dawn-lit street, with a bow that has learned to wait for the exact moment to sing.