Hunter's Soft Wood Longbow

The Hunter's Soft Wood Longbow rests in the crook of a hunter's arm, its limbs pale as dried grass and lighter than you expect, yet stubbornly steady when you bring it to your chest. The wood wears a satin sheen, like morning glaze, with a whispering grain that catches the light in ripples of honey and ash. Small knots mark the interior spine, and the carvings along the belly map a running hawk, its feathers etched with careful, patient strokes. The string is made from horsehair or sinew—some say both—tightened to a whisper, so the draw feels clean and unhurried, as if the bow were listening for your breath. The bow's grip sits smooth under the palm, padded with soft leather that has seen many seasons, and when you flex the limbs you hear almost a sigh, a quiet promise that this weapon will bend with you, not against you. Lore traces its lineage to frontier scouts who crossed damp forests and salt-breeze marshes, a weapon handed down through brave hands who learned to listen to wood as much as to people. They spoke of a soft wood that bends before it breaks, of nights spent aiming at stars that stitched the path home. In that sense, the longbow is less a tool than a companion, a confidant that shares the weight of silence and the sudden release of a well-timed shot. In the field, the Hunter's Longbow is prized for its balance and ease. Its draw is forgiving for quick, stealthy maneuvers: you can nock an arrow with the thumb of your free hand and let your stance settle into a crouch, drawing on instinct rather than force. It rewards patience, too, the hunter who studies tracks before lifting its lever-like limbs, choosing angles and angles again until the target glances away. You can slip a feathered shaft through brush with little extra clatter, and the soft wood's natural resilience means fewer nerves when nerves would otherwise betray you. Season after season, villagers trade tales of bandits who hesitated at the edge of a campfire and learned to listen for the telltale whisper of a thread of sinew singing tight. Market days, the saddle-worn stalls of Saddlebag Exchange hum with barter and barter's color—silvers jingling, copper clinking, leather creaking as merchants spread maps and lists of wares. A hunter might watch the breath of a bow grow warmer in the sun and barter proudly for it, a price perhaps three silver coins on a slow afternoon, a trade made with a nod and a hopeful hand. The bow's value isn't only measured in coins, though; it is counted in mornings spent behind a hedgerow, in birds startled into flight and a silhouette slipping along a treetop, ready to release the arrow when the moment is finally right. Enduring, patient, quiet—these are the traits the Soft Wood Longbow carries in its grain, a compass toward patience and precision, and the quiet lore that binds hunter and wood across seasons together.