The Assassin's Charged Stormcaller Short Bow gleams with rain-slick ash wood, its limbs slender and dark as a midnight reed, lacquered in a coppery stain that catches light like a storm-touched lake. Narrow runes curl along the grip, blue sigils sparking faintly whenever the wind brushes the surface, and the string—thin as a whisper—hums with electricity as if a secret storm has learned to sing through a thread. The bowhead wears a small brass totem in the shape of a curling thunderbolt, cool to the touch, a reminder that power can be held, even in something so precise and measured. The texture speaks of patient hands and weathered nights: oil-warmed wood, stubborn grain, and a facing of hammered steel that has learned to drink heat and damp in equal measure. It looks the way a sudden gale would look, if you could cradle its breath in your palms—the kind of weapon that seems to remember the rain long after the rain itself is gone. Lore threads itself through its graceful lines. It’s said a shadow-walker once bargained with a spectrum of storm-callers, binding their electric will to the bow’s core so that a single shot could fracture silence and summon a bloom of light. The aura clings to the weapon like a memory—the scent of rain on stone, the rumor of you being watched from a ledge above a narrow street—and you feel the history in the weight of the grip, as if the hunter who last tested it walked with thunder at their shoulder. In the hands of a patient hands, the Charged Stormcaller becomes less a tool and more a contract: a promise that a well-placed arrow can ripple through the air and scatter a group of foes with a crackle that feels almost ceremonial, as though every strike were part of a larger, ancient storm ritual. In practice, its significance unfolds like a quiet chapter in a longer story. The short bow’s reach is intimate, built for the chase, for stepping from shadow to shadow with the poise of a hunter who respects the wind. A predator’s craft—shots that sing, then bite, often chaining a line of sparks from target to second target, as lightning finds paths through a crowded lane. It rewards timing: a drawn breath at the edge of a lamp-lit rooftop, a release that threads through the night like a glimmering thread of wind. When used in concert with stealth and movement, it feels less like cold arithmetic and more like a narrative arc—the kind of weapon that nudges fate a fraction, so an unforeseen opportunity becomes the turning moment of a scene you’ll tell later by lamplight. And the market knows, too. In the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where old stories and newer glints mingle, the Stormcaller’s price rises and falls with the weather of demand. A passerby might trade a careful trade or barter a tale for a fair coin, weathering the chatter of vendors who swear by the bow’s reputation. I hear one tale of a buyer who paid a price that matched a storm’s loudest heartbeat, another of a patient hunter who waited for a lull in the rain to seal the deal—each story wrapping around the weapon like a second coat of rain. Holding it, you feel the city’s mood shift with the weather: a promise that, when the moment comes, the storm will answer your call—and you’ll answer it with a shot that speaks of thunder and grace.