Bowyer/Fletcher shop

Tucked just off one of the narrower streets of Voolnishart’s military quarter, beneath a weathered sign carved into the shape of a bent yew branch, stands The Hollow Limb, a bowyer’s haven of sawdust, sinew, and silence broken only by the twang of test strings. The scent of cut hardwood, boiled linseed oil, and feather glue greets all who pass the threshold, layered like old memories in the air.

The shop is orderly but lived-in. Long racks of recurves and flatbows hang like sleeping serpents along the walls, each piece tagged with fine script and careful notes about woodgrain, draw weight, and balance. Crossbows—both windlass-driven and lever-pulled—rest under locked glass, their limbs crafted from blackened hornwood or imported brass-laced iron. A side alcove houses bundles of arrows, sheaves sorted by shaft material—ash, yew, or the rare redthorn—and fletching color.

The fletching wall is a thing of subtle beauty. Rows of feathers hang like a painter’s palette, from commonplace goose and hawk to the prized striped blue-black primaries of a griffon, acquired through exclusive dealings with Momma Toki’s Menagerie during molt season. These are stored behind a quiet enchantment of preservation, never wasted, and sold only to those who know their worth.

Behind the counter, half-hidden by a sliding wall of laminated wood strips and half-finished stave blanks, works Jorvan Rethell, a grizzled veteran of Mithrin’s border legions. Broad-shouldered even in age, Jorvan moves with a craftsman’s economy—his once-hardened limbs now more accustomed to drawing string than steel. He bears the quiet gravitas of a man who saw too many arrows loosed in anger, and now prefers those that fly for sport, sustenance, or ceremony.

Jorvan speaks plainly, with a soldier’s clarity, and rarely haggles—unless he sees merit or mischief in the attempt. His pride is the shop’s own woodcraft. Every bow handle carved within The Hollow Limb’s back room is done under his supervision, if not his own hand, often from wind-twisted trees grown along Mithrin’s coastal ridges or sun-dried in salt caves near Kadathe’.

Though most of his stock is mundane by design, select arrowheads from the famed Kraggencore Forge are proudly displayed behind glass: chisel-edged, spiral-bored, armor-piercing, and barbed—+1 quality in form, though not yet enchanted. Ready for mage’s touch or left bare for the purist’s aim.

A modest staff of apprentices and journeymen, many ex-soldiers themselves, assist in stringing, shafting, and fitting. They respect the old man too much to cut corners, and too little to let him forget a joke. Contracts with the city garrison keep the business humming, though custom work—ceremonial bows for officers, or finely balanced recurves for noble hunts—brings both coin and challenge.

Every part not made here is marked and known: imported pulleys from Ostelin, dwarven-lathed triggers for some crossbows, or spider-silk bowstrings bought in uneasy truce from underdark traders.

Yet, for all its military contracts and technical excellence, the soul of The Hollow Limb lies in Jorvan’s reverence for archery—not just the weapon, but the craft. He claims that “a bow remembers its first stringing,” and if you speak with care, he might show you the twisted longbow carved from the limb of a war-dead Tal-Shie, kept hung above his hearth, unstrung and unsold.