Abaddon Longbow

Abaddon Longbow rests in the soft glow of a campfire, its body carved from blackened yew that seems to drink the light. The limbs curve into a crescent, as if whispered prayers had bent the wood into intent, and runes shimmer like embers just beneath the skin. The grip is wrapped in weathered crimson leather, threadbare from years of steady hands, yet the stitching holds with stubborn pride. The string, spun from shadow-sinew, hums faintly when drawn. At the tips, carved dragons' fangs push outward, and along the riser a sigil—an eye, an arrow, a square—threads through the grain, catching the light the way a blade catches rain. Heavy with presence, lighter than air, it seems to wait. Whispers insist the bow is named for Abaddon, the god whispered of the underworld, and there are traces of that dark affinity in the way the wood seems to drink the dawn away and leave a line of cold on your fingers after a shot. Old hunters tell a story of a renegade ranger who bargained with chance and got more than a bargain in return: arrows that skim shadows and find the heart with patient hands. The sigils are memory, a ledger of hunts that refused to end. When the bow is held to the light just so, you can almost hear a choir of distant bells, as if the weapon keeps time with a world that refuses to surrender its secrets. On the field, the Abaddon Longbow asks to be treated as a partner, not a weapon. It favors patience and power: long-range shots that split the air with a quiet crack, followed by a ghostly afterimage of the arrow that lingers in the fog before slipping away. Critics of the craft warn that it rewards those who listen for wind and weather, because the arrow travels true when you heed the map of the air. In skirmishes and ambushes the bow shines—one shot to thin a front line, and another to break a healer's rhythm, the kind of edge a commander remembers after their camp is built again. Its enchantment seems to whisper that every hunt is a negotiation with fate, and the price of doubt is a missed mark. Markets bend to stories like this, and Saddlebag Exchange is no exception. A clerk with a keen eye flips open a ledger and glances at the line recording Abaddon Longbows. The price is less a number than a rumor of silver and a favor owed, a token dropped into a trader’s palm and never forgotten. Traders murmur about demand, nights when a lone ranger seeks a bow to carry them through gale-kissed cliffs, and collectors who dream of legends inked on their quivers. When a buyer signs for the Abaddon Longbow, the stall seems to exhale, coins catching the firelight and turning bright as a small hinge in a busy market. Some say the bow will outlast empires if kept rightly; others say it serves only those who choose their path.