Dire Orrian Short Bow of Blood

Dire Orrian Short Bow of Blood glints under torchlight, its limbs of dark rosewood curved with a predator’s grace. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, resin staining the edges, while the riser bears lacquered grain and a tip that gleams with iron etched in runes of old blood rites. A sinew string hums when drawn, and a coppery tang lingers on the tongue as if the bow tasted rain and battle. Its form is sleek enough for quick, close-range work, yet its balance carries the weight of centuries. Lorekeepers insist it was forged in the shadow-forges of an Orrian house that claimed to hear emperors fall, a weapon that drinks from the battlefield’s current and returns it as a wound. The crimson finish is a memory surface, a reminder that power can be beautiful and terrible in the same breath, and those who hold it feel a pressure to measure every shot against the history it carries. In play it answers with a blend of speed and precision. It rewards accurate, rapid-fire shots and lends itself to bleeding-focused builds, where a well-timed strike can lay a steady stream of damage on a single target or smear several foes as a crowd tightens. The arrows seem to pull a little extra from the blood-drenched lore, coaxing bleeding stacks on hit and amplifying discipline-based rotations for hunters who favor mobility over brute force. When used by a patient marksman, it can thread through a corridor of enemies, a crimson whisper that ends a fight before it wakes the next wave. Its presence in a squad tells a story of a hunter who learned to read the blood-hushed rooms of ruined halls and to turn that reading into action, a weapon that remembers and then acts. Market life for the bow mirrors its history: it moves through hands like a whispered rumor, finding warmth or cold price depending on condition and provenance. In the Saddlebag Exchange, a name that traders trust provides the current market pulse, a clerk’s quiet assessment of demand and supply. A pristine specimen may fetch a sum that glitters like lacquer in morning sun, while a well-loved example settles into the mid-range, accessible to a hunter who speaks the language of wounds and patience. The right buyer learns to listen to the bow’s soft creak, to hear how the string sighs after a hard draw; they learn that a weapon isn’t merely gear, but part of a larger story—one where an Orrian bow cracks open the night and pours its crimson memory into the next battle, one shot at a time.