Strong Soft Wood Short Bow gleams on the workbench, its amber grain curling like a sunlit river through pale sapwood. The limbs are slender and confident, curved to speak of tension rather than brute force, with a gentle, forgiving bend that invites a steady hand. The grip is wrapped in oiled leather, darkened to the hue of rain-slip, and the texture is smooth but always aware of the player's grip—cool in autumn, slick in rain, the kind of surface that forgives a shaky finger and rewards patience. The string is taut as a drawn breath, a pale thread dyed with the memory of a dozen hunts, and the small nicks along the limbs tell of campfires and rough hands smoothing splinters back to life. There is a lore to it, too: not simply a tool, but a story carried by wood and wind. The Soft Wood, harvested from riverbank copses that grow quick and straight, is prized for its resilience; the "Strong" stamp marks a careful selection, a bow that will hold its draw under pressure when the world grows loud with a goblin raid or a storm of arrows from the hills. Hunters in the old supply routes speak of this bow as a companion rather than a weapon—one that moves with you, not against you, through hedgerows and marsh grasses. In gameplay, its essence is efficiency and speed. It is the kind of short bow that allows a scout to slip from shadow to shadow, to tag a target with a clean shot and then arc away before the ground trembles with the stampede of pursuers. Its draw is not bracing like a heavy hunting bow but nimble, forgiving for a beginner yet precise enough for a seasoned archer who reads wind and distance as if they were lines in a map. In the wider world, it becomes more than a tool: it is a missive sent into a skirmish, a quiet whisper that tells a story—of a hunter who learned to rely on subtle leverage rather than sheer force. Quarries are not just meat but memories: the way a goblin’s leg buckles under a fast arrow, the way a guard’s gaze snaps up at the twang of a well-placed shot, the way the leather grip wears in with use, slowly becoming part of the shooter’s own hand. I found mine through a quiet stall tucked beside the river market, where the Saddlebag Exchange hums with barter and rumor. The price drifted as trade winds do—today a modest sum in copper and a spool of spare fletching, tomorrow perhaps a little more if the bow bore a few more scars. I traded what I could, a story and a handful of salvaged rivets, and walked away with a bow that felt less like a thing and more like a quiet promise. The world doesn’t end with a single shot, but with a careful aim—and that is where this Strong Soft Wood Short Bow finds its home for good.