The Carrion Hard Wood Longbow rests in the copper glow of a late afternoon forge, its limbs gleaming with a lacquered sheen that catches the light like dried amber. The grip is wrapped in worn hide, scuffed from seasons of use, while the central riser bears a subtle sigil of a scavenger's camp—a reminder that every harvest comes with its own debt. The wood itself feels alive in the hands, cool and stubborn, as if the tree that produced it learned patience from centuries of wind and rain. String lines cradle in the notches with a quiet sigh, and the nocks are carved with thornlike etchings that blur the edge of shadow when the bow is drawn. It has a smell of resin and old smoke, and if you listen closely, you can hear a faint, almost ceremonial whisper—an echo of the hunters who fed their families with quiet shots from a hidden treeline. Lore says the Carrion tree grew where battlefields left the earth scarred, its wood seasoned by carrion birds and the rustle of rain-soaked leaves; those who bend this bow claim that mercy and doom share a bowstring, and that patience rewards the precise shot with a quiet, decisive strike. In the heat of a skirmish, this longbow seems to concentrate the air itself, pulling your focus into a narrow wedge of sight. The limbs flex with a controlled recoil, and an arrow flicks away with a whisper rather than a crack, finding its mark through armor and leather with unusual certainty. It feels balanced for stalking—weight low in the handle, tip light enough to guess the distance without counting syllables in your breath. Players who favor careful, measured takedowns discover that the Carrion Hard Wood Longbow rewards discipline: longer draw yields a cleaner, deeper penetration; quick, rapid shots haunt the edge of a pursuer’s stride; charged shots carve through crowd control with a surprising steadiness. In practice it becomes more than a weapon; it is a companion through forests and ruined outposts, guiding a hunter’s steps from one cover to another, turning evasive corridors into stages where a single considered shot reshapes the dance of combat. Market days bring a different brightness to its legend. Traders speak in hushed tones about the wood’s scarcity, the way even a seasoned marksman respects the craft that rewove a fallen tree into a tool of survival. I watched a rider wheel through the gate on a sun-bleached horse, eyes bright, and I heard the price named at Saddlebag Exchange—modest for the right hands, and negotiable for those who arrive with stories as well as coin. The sale was more than silver changing hands; it was a promise to keep moving, to stand a moment longer on the ridge, to trust the longbow to carry a message across distance, and to remember, every time the string finds its note, that the world beyond the campfire is listening. Some buyers nod, some smile, and the longbow waits patiently for dawn again.