Dire Orrian Bow of Agony

The Dire Orrian Bow of Agony rests on a battered oak stand, its limbs carved from midnight-black yew that seems to drink the candlelight, the grip wrapped in aged leather salted with resin and ash, the whole thing lacquered with a lacquer of stubborn red that gleams when a flicker of lantern flame catches the runes along the riser. The bow’s sinewy strings carry a faint, sour-smelling tang, like a storm pressed into a taut rope, and the etched runes glow a pale, almost feverish crimson when it’s drawn, as if the weapon itself remembers the pain it’s meant to dispense. Its fittings bear the marks of countless campaigns: a spine of bone along the grip, inlays of crimson glass that catch the eye, and a crest half-hidden beneath a veneer of lacquer that hints at an empire’s old ambition and the cruelty it often rewarded. The lore-keepers say the bow was forged in the dampest days of a ruined Orrian harbor, tempered not just by flame and iron but by a pact made with a captive whose cries still echo in the timber of the limbs; from that night, the Agony named itself, feeding on fear as much as force, promising that a single arrow could carry a story of torment to the heart of any target. In the field, the weapon feels like a living thing, weighty and patient, a hunter’s confidant that demands restraint even as it urges boldness. When the string flicks to life, the air seems to tighten, and the first flight cleaves through the murk with a whisper of wind and a ghost’s sigh. Each arrow seems to wear a lingering memory of pain, a slow burn that clusters into bleeding or torment upon its mark, turning a hurried skirmish into a narrative of consequence. The bow does not simply puncture armor; it insinuates itself into a larger chorus of combat, pairing well with builds built on condition pressure and careful manipulation of time and space. It rewards patient plays—shots that wait for the moment when a foe’s guard slips, shots that take advantage of vulnerability built by allies and misdirection—while reminding the wielder that power condemned to echo is not free to waste. Some veterans claim the Agony thrives in the presence of sorrowful locales—shipyards, tombs, and the flood-dark lungs of ruined piers—where memories, like the mist on the river, blur the lines between hunter and hunted, and the weapon’s appetite for violence grows with the story surrounding it. The markets around the river port carry its weight differently, and the dialogue about value plays out as a caravan’s lullaby rather than a clerk’s ledger. I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange one late afternoon, where a ledger-kaiser’s voice wove through the chatter of merchants and smugglers, and the bow’s price hung in balance like a coin teetering on its edge; the paper tag whispered of hundreds of gold, while a veteran trader argued for a fairer ruin-and-resupply trade, suggesting the bow would serve as a cornerstone for a caravan’s safety in the lean months ahead. In the end, a careful trade—two tonics of preserved nightshade, a map stained by salt, and a promise of future barter—brought the Dire Orrian Bow of Agony into my hands, a weapon not merely of warfare but of story, ready to accompany its new bearer through streets and coves, through whispers of old wars and new quests, where every shot might bind a tale of pain to the living world and keep a fading memory from slipping away.