Dire Orrian Short Bow of Bloodlust

Dire Orrian Short Bow of Bloodlust gleams under the market lanterns, its limbs carved from driftwood-dark timber inlaid with bone runes that pulse faintly as if alive. The grip, wrapped in tanned leather, wears the scars of countless campaigns; the bowstring is a sinew thread fine as a spider’s silk, taut with a whisper of tension. The wood bears streaks of crimson lacquer that catch the light with every flex, and at its belly a small sigil—an open maw devouring the breath of its targets. When you tilt it toward the sun, the runes seem to shift, like a tide turning toward blood. Lore says the weapon was won from the ruins of an Orrian outpost where bone and iron were melded in a ritual of blood and oath; a tribal smith whispered it would drink fear and spit out courage, feeding on the life force of those it pierced. Those who wield it speak of a weapon that prizes precision over volume. In open skirmishes it punctures from a distance, but the true theater begins when it turns to close quarters: a few swift shots, a patient pause, then a lethal follow-through as the Bloodlust current surges through the bow and into the archer’s hands. The bow is said to carry a Bloodlust enchantment, a spark that grows with each foe felled, lending swiftness and piercing focus to the next shot. Players describe it as a companion for mobility builds, letting you weave in and out of danger, trading defense for a short, brutal heartbeat of power. It rewards timing: a kill transfer feeding adrenaline, a critical strike feeding the next, a cycle that can turn a lone scout into a storm. On the market, such items drift through hands as easily as rumors. I watched a dealer weigh it against a handful of relics, the price jittering as new adventurers added offers. The Saddlebag Exchange, a well-traveled hub where gear gossip travels faster than coin, listed a recent sale at a figure that made even seasoned traders pause—an amount tempered by scarcity and the bow’s legend. The seller spoke of whispers tied to the Orrian camps, of craftsmen who signed the weapon’s blade with their own breath, of buyers who wanted not just a tool but a talisman. For those who chase such relics, the bow isn’t merely equipment; it’s a thread that ties together journeys from fog-sheathed coasts to the heat of close combat. With every draw, the Dire Orrian Short Bow of Bloodlust seems to remind us that history travels in arrows, that power travels in stories, and that sometimes a weapon outlives its owner by feeding the next. Some nights, I watch a marksman cradle the bow, listening to the soft thrum of its enchantment, as if a captive current is allowed to breathe again. The Bloodlust hum fades only after the last shot, leaving a memory of shared courage—an old story renewed each time a blade finds its mark. Its glare follows you home.