Dire Orrian Bow of Vision

The Dire Orrian Bow of Vision rests on a worn velvet cloth, its limbs black as a midnight shoreline and etched with salt-brined runes that catch the lamplight in a slow, patient glimmer. The body is carved from a single driftwood sapling found in the ruins where Orrian memory freezes, its grain thick as a hunter’s heartbeat, lacquered to a dull, mitted sheen that seems to swallow the light rather than reflect it. Along the grip runs a carved eye—not grotesque, but patient—peering outward with a quiet intelligence, while the string, taut and pale as new frost, hums with a trace of something old and sure. When you cradle it, the texture speaks of oils worn by centuries of hands; the bow is cool, almost damp, and the weight feels like a story leaning toward you, begging to be told. Lore holds that this weapon was tempered in the last days of Orrian rule by a seer who poured visions into its core, binding memory to wood so that a true hunter might see the world’s hidden edges—the ghost of a trap, the path of a hidden foe, the tremor of a shield when it should fail. To witness the Vision is to walk with a second sight: an arrow that gathers light and intention, and once loosed, splits that light into a brief, radiant corridor through which the target’s true nature is laid bare, revealing cloaks, illusions, and even the faint tremor of a lie. In gameplay, that translates to practical courage: shots that pierce concealment, arrows that illuminate a path through a battlefield dense with deception, and a tempo that rewards patience as much as aim. A master marks the arc with precision, then calls the vision down as a judge would read a courtroom gaze—your opponents can be seen for what they are, even when they pretend to be something else, and the bow rewards careful timing as much as raw power. I learned this not in a closed arena but in a market that smells faintly of tar and rain—the Saddlebag Exchange—where traders lay out relics and rumors under canvas awnings. A broker there told me that the Dire Orrian Bow of Vision would not sit long on a rack; it has a price that makes the air tighten, a blend of emeralds and memory shards, and the kind of negotiation that leaves both buyer and seller smiling even as the quill scratches a higher total on the receipt. If you carry it through the streets and ruins alike, you sense how the world tilts toward clarity when you stand beneath its gaze: it does not force you to see, but it invites you to remember what your eyes have learned to ignore. In that invitation lies the bow’s true power, stitching a small, bright thread between hunter and history as if the future itself were listening for your next move. Some nights, the bow whispers back, urging restraint, patience, and mercy toward the hunted alike.