Assassin's Elder Wood Longbow

The Assassin's Elder Wood Longbow rests on a weather-worn stand, its limbs curved with a quiet, confident grace. The elder wood itself glows a warm, honeyed amber where the grain runs deepest, a living map of years spent listening to the wind. Its belly is lacquered in a soft, satin-black that catches the light without glare, while the limbs bear a dozen faint crescents—each one a whispered sigil of the order that once kept watch in the shadowed hollows. The grip is bound in worn leather threads, now pale from years of sweat and weather, and the string—thin as a whisper yet taut as a vow—draws back with a breathless slide that sounds almost like a sigh when released. Along the belly, meticulous runes are etched in a pattern that suggests stepping through a door rather than drawing a bow; the marks seem to hum with a patient promise, as if the weapon remembers every target it has ever found and every night it saved a life. Lore insists the bow was forged in the quiet heart of an elder grove, where trees bend without breaking and the light is filtered through a thousand leaf-thin stories. It is said to have belonged to a hunter who pledged themselves to a shadowed order that valued restraint and precision as much as courage. When that hunter vanished into rumor, the longbow did not fade; it drifted through villages and caravans, traded by guardians of old routes and shield-bearers who preferred the quiet, surgical strike to deafening bravado. Some nights, the bow seems to catch the moon in its hollowed notch, a silver breath tucked into wood. If you listen closely after a clean shot, you can swear you hear the trees murmur their approval, as though the forest itself vouches for the shot’s mercy and its necessity. In the world around it, the bow’s significance flows through the way people move in daylight and in fog. It is built for distance and discipline, to carve a path through the bustle of a crowded camp or over the ridge where sentries pace in a measured circle. Its shots carry a steady, practiced cadence, enabling a hunter to pick off a patrol without shouting the order to surrender the night. For a skirmisher or a scout, it translates quiet into consequence: a well-placed arrow can end a chase before it begins, or mark a retreat with a clean, decisive message. The Elder Wood seems to know the rhythm of a hunt—a patient patience that lets you wait for the moment when a heartbeat becomes a signal. Price and provenance drift through markets as freely as rumors do, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where the true collectors gather to weigh the bow’s worth against its stories. On a bright, bustling day you might hear a price spoken in gold, then haggle over wear and the glow of the sigils impressed into the grip. The bow’s value is rarely just metal and wood; it is the weight of a legend, of the hunter who walked before you and the possibility of the one you might become. And so the bow remains—not merely a weapon, but a thread stitching shadow to daylight, memory to deed, fear to purpose.