Nephelem
01-12-2016, 04:38 AM
Recent locker cleaning turned up this old bow. It was from hunt for history in 2002. Composite bow. 5x enchant. Weighs 3 lbs. Will go ONCE TWICE SOLD.
MB- 500k CB- 1.75m Harrier SOLD!
a sylvan recurve bow
show:
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. You also notice a
small enchanter's glyph.
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.
MB- 500k CB- 1.75m Harrier SOLD!
a sylvan recurve bow
show:
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. You also notice a
small enchanter's glyph.
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.