Sylvan recurve bow
This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.
Item
a Sylvan recurve bow
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Whirls of mithril trace fanciful patterns along and around the length of the finely crafted bow. Linden heartwood and horn are layered together to give the weapon durability and a powerful draw. As beautiful as it is useful, the bow has been polished until it gleams softly and a light stain has been applied to bring out the grain of the wood.
Details
- A fine bow once belonging to the Sylvan army.
- Composite bow
- 5x (+25) bonus
Loresong
Birds call out to each other in the branches of a multitude of trees. The autumn sunshine pours through the evergreens and splashes on the colored leaves that decorate the forest floor. A small dirt path winds its way across your vision and up over a small rise, barely disturbing the landscape as it goes. You can almost smell the clean air and feel the pure and joyous life of the woods.
One by one, the birds fall silent. The sun's rays diminish somehow, even though it remains high in the sky, and a chill breeze carries away the day's warmth. The woods are still now and an unclean feeling sends a shiver down your spine. Something is not right. Something that was never meant to happen has come to pass. Something utters a low, sickly growl and the silence of the woods grows deeper.
A spindly elf trudges along the forest path wearing a rusted set of half-plate. He halts, unmoving, and after a few moments, you realize his stillness is complete. He does not even draw breath and from beneath his helm, his eyes glow with a faint red light from hollow sockets. The undead elf lurches into motion once more and behind him comes a legion of shambling forms, all of them creeping with unnatural life along the trail.
A silvery horn call blasts out, shattering the forest's quiet. The drumbeats of hooves fill the air and along the entire length of the ridgeline, a cavalry troop blocks the advance of the undead horde. One tall rider calls out orders in a commanding voice. "Ready!" "Aim!" "Loose!" Shining arrows whistle through the woods, ending their flight in the bodies and limbs of the undead. The horde is scythed down like light wheat at the harvest before the horse-mounted archers and, within seconds, the riders begin cantering down the rise, their bows still reaping of their foe.
One of the riders stops and removes his helm, gazing about the forest. His pointed ears hint to elven ancestry, while his light hair and eyes show him to be a sylvan warrior. He bends down without even leaving the saddle and picks an arrow from a zombie's chest, grimacing in distaste. Other sylvans, both male and female, stop to retrieve their arrows. Once their quivers are refilled, they form up and disappear over the rise. As the sound of their passage fades, a lone bird hesitantly chirrups from the treetops.
Slowly the vision begins to fade, and you regain the sense of the here and now.