Dire Orrian Bow of Rage

The Dire Orrian Bow of Rage rests across a weathered oak counter, its limbs black as a storm-tossed pier and striped with grain that seems to move when you tilt it just so. The wood bears the kiss of time, a roughness that glints with a stubborn, almost oily sheen, as if the bow fought breath with every stroke of wind. Its grip is wrapped in tanned leather, salt-stained and scarred by years of use, and along the tapering body runes curl like living vines, faintly glowing a coppery red whenever the weapon grows warm from a long draw. A brass ferrule clamps the ivory-tlecked tip and the string—thin as a whisper and taut enough to snap a dawn—hums with a quiet, almost reverent energy. In the dim light the bow’s edges catch, not merely a weapon but a shard of memory, forged in fire and rumor, said to have absorbed the anger of a fallen empire and the stubborn will of its last defenders. Lore travels faster than rumor, they say, and this bow carries a dozen of them in its grain. It is told that the Orrian smiths who shaped the weapon poured not only skill but storm-wrought patience into its construction, tempering it with a vow made in a salt-baked hall. Some whisper that the bow was carved from timber salvaged from ships that dared the reefs during a siege, that every arrow loosed from it carries a remnant of the rage that fueled those bold, ruinous days. A few insist the bow remembers the face of a commander who stared down impossible odds and swore vengeance into the wood until the last spark died. Whether true or tall, the intertwining of anger and artistry is palpable whenever you cradle it, as if the bow itself listens for a final plea before it speaks. In the hands, its edge of power feels almost tactile. A drawn shot seems to pull more than a target into danger; the arrow seems to carry a pulse, a resonant tremor that unsettles shields and unsettles patience. Those who have tested it speak of precision that cuts through fog and armor, of arrows that snap back to fire a second time if a foe trembles. It suits the patient archer who can wait for the perfect line, then release a breath into the string and watch the world tilt toward a decisive moment. It shines in skirmishes where distance and tempo decide the fight, and it never forgets the kinship between aim and consequence. The Dire Orrian Bow of Rage is not merely equipment; it is a companion that tests nerve, reveals a hunter’s creed, and makes quiet triumphs feel earned rather than earned-forcibly. At the market stalls of the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders wearily haggle over glinting edges and old coins, the bow’s horned price sits on a sheet of brass, a stubborn number that climbs with each whispered story. The haggling arc bends around it, the way a tide drags a shell across the shore, until a buyer lays down gold and the seller slides the bow into a leather case as if setting a chapter into a page of a larger chronicle. The deal is not merely about value but about trust—in the bow’s memory, in the hands that will wield it next, in the road it will carry its new owner down and through. And so the weapon passes, carrying the rage of its past into the next chapter, where it may yet carve a new myth from a fresh field of conflict.