The Carrion Destroyer Longbow rests on a varnished oak pedestal, its limbs curved like a raven’s wing and lacquer so dark it seems to swallow light. The grip is worn leather, stitched with sinew until it feels almost warm in your hand. On the riser, bone inlays catch the lamp with a pale, ghostly gleam, while a thin film of resin beads the surface as if the bow remembers every drop of rain from battles long past. Crimson sigils coil along the lower limb, copper threads catching the flame; the string hums faintly when drawn, a quiet scream muffled by wood and leather. The ends bear fletching dyed ash, bound with rawhide, each feather a little ember waiting for the arrow to ignite. It is said to be tempered in the aftermath of a carrion plague, a weapon born where hunger and hunter meet. The wood, some claim, drank the scent of death and woke with a memory of every prey it ever found. To hold it is to feel the marsh’s breath in your palm, the world narrowing to a single arc and a single target. Wartales speak of the bow not only piercing armor but binding life to life; with each precise hit it seems to draw a shard of vitality back to the shooter, a small mercy that keeps a hunter moving when the night grows heavy. In the field, the Carrion Destroyer Longbow rewards patience as much as aim. Its arrows carry a trace of necrotic energy, slipping through defenses and landing with a whisper that tells you you chose the right moment. On hit, a portion of health returns to the wielder, subtle enough to feel like luck and strong enough to matter in a drawn-out brawl. Against necrotic foes, its effects glow brighter, leaving lingering poison or bleed that gnaws at adversaries who thought themselves safe. The playstyle it rewards is quiet and deliberate—draw, time the breath, release when the wind and the target align. Beyond the battlefield, the bow travels with hunters and caravans, a talisman whispered about in camps and market tents. Rangers along fog-wrapped rivers speak of its reputation, how it steadies a hand when fear presses in and makes a hunter feel the world fall away until only the shot matters. At Saddlebag Exchange, a canvas awning shelters a stall where the longbow rests among crates and curious trinkets. Traders murmur about price in silver and gold, judging condition and inscriptions the way a scribe weighs a debt. A pristine specimen might command a higher sum, while a well-worn version finds buyers who barter with a blend of ore, scrolls, and coin. Prices drift with caravans and festivals, and every offer threads another line into the weapon’s growing legend. To own the Carrion Destroyer Longbow is to join a lineage of rangers who walk the line between hunger and mercy, moving with a purpose as steady as the shot that will decide the next breath of the hunted.