Assassin's Hard Wood Short Bow

Assassin's Hard Wood Short Bow rests on a moss-stained stump, its slender limbs carved from stubborn hardwood and finished with a satin lacquer that gleams like a quiet secret in the sun. The edges are sharp, not harsh, with a texture that feels like warm glass under the fingertips—smooth where the hand grips, subtly rasped along the belly from years of practice, the grain winding in tight rivers that never quite meet. The string, taut as a drawn breath, hums with almost mechanical patience, and the grip is wrapped in worn leather that has taken on the scent of rain, oil, and distant camps. Along its belly run faint runes, not graffiti but signals: a quiet blessing from masters who taught the way of shadows, a promise that this wood remembers the steps of those who walked between light and rumor. Lore settles on its surface in a way you can taste, as if the tree itself whispered a debt to the assassin who learned to listen instead of rush. In the world where such a thing moves through markets and marches, the Assassin's Hard Wood Short Bow has never been merely a tool. It carries the memory of a guild that trusted sound over shout, of a hunter who could blur into the pines and let a single arrow do its choosing before the guard even felt wind on their skin. Its limbs spring back with a hunter's economy: not the longest reach, but the fastest reply. It is the sort of bow that favors precision and speed over brute power, letting a light hunter slip from shadow to shadow, feathering a target with two or three swift breaths of aim and release. In the narrow alleys of a ruined outpost, in a caravan's dim corridor, or on the lip of a cliff when the fog rolls in, this bow teaches its owner to read the story of a scene and to write a quiet paragraph with each shot. A shot is not a shout here; it is a sentence, delivered with intention. Prices drift through memory as well as markets, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where one might hear the bow's value announced with a practical nod. A trader flicks a coin into the air, checks the weight of silver against the wood's age, and mutters that the Assassin's Hard Wood Short Bow is worth a fair handful of gold, if the buyer knows the hum of the string and the shift of the wind. We barters in a language of glances—what you give for what you gain—while the vendor's stall smells of resin, oil, and rain-smudged leather. If you listen closely, the bow seems to answer: it would rather not be bought for loud praise, but carried by someone patient enough to let it tell its story in silence. And so it travels on, from one shadow to the next, a companion to the quiet hunter who knows that a single, well-timed breath can outpace a chorus of noise.