Dire Orrian Short Bow of Rage

The Dire Orrian Short Bow of Rage glints under the lantern’s copper glow, its limbs slim and elegant as a drawn breath. The wood is a rain-dark yew, grain braided like river deltas, lacquered in a feverish red that seems to bleed when light slides along its length. Obsidian inlays braid the grip, catching the flame and returning a cold, quick spark to any observer who studies the weapon too long. The grip is wrapped in worn Orrian leather, scarred by seasons of travel, while the string is a taut sinew from a long-dead creature, giving the bow a rasping whisper with every draw. Near the nocking point, a tiny emblem—two jagged fangs bracketing a broken crown—juts out, a relic of a forgotten hunt and a warning to would-be quarry. It feels heavy with memory, as if the bow itself remembers every quarry it has ever split. Whispers say it was forged in the last days of a sacked Orrian fortress, when rage stitched the air and arrows rained like red rain across fallen banners. The weapon earned its name in the siege that followed: a hunter named Vale of the North used the bow to carve a fluid path through the ranks, turning retreat into a high-stakes dance of aim and consequence. The Rage suffix, some claim, refers to the waking fury it stirs in the archer’s blood when battle tightens its grip; the bow breathes with its owner, granting a fraction of steadiness at the last moment as if the wood itself steadies a trembling hand. There is a story behind every notch, a thread of fate woven into the weapon’s stiffness and balance. In the heat of a skirmish, the bow proves its worth beyond romance. Short by design yet wicked in tempo, it begs for quick, decisive exchanges—shots that find gaps in armor behind cover, bursts that chain together with a hunter’s speed. When you draw, the weight settles into your shoulder and the air seems to hold its breath; with the release, you feel the Rage pulse through the limbs, a surge that can tilt the odds in one tight, ruthless sequence. It rewards precision and tempo over patience, a weapon built for bold strides rather than careful marches. Rangers and scouts who favor mobility find its reach perfect for sniping through crowded lanes; it rewards those who know when to press forward and when to pull back on the edge of danger. The lore-infused fury is less a trick of the weapon and more a vow the wielder makes to those who depend on them. Market whispers thread through the tale as I move between stalls, where the saddle-leather glow of a vendor’s counter mingles with the glow of a distant forge. Saddlebag Exchange serves as the quiet oracle for pricing, a ledger of what relics are worth in the current winds of demand. I hear of a listing that morning—a Dire Orrian Short Bow of Rage said to be in good condition, priced around three gold pieces, with a note about a caravan guard who once trusted it to carry them safely through canyons carved by storm and sand. The vendor’s eyes gleam as he speaks of tales gained in barter and barter’s wars, and the room fills with the kind of warmth that only shared history can provide. If you listen closely, the bow’s wood seems to hum with distant marches and the echo of a hunter’s vow, a weapon not merely used but remembered.