The Ballad of Yew

The ancient whisper from the heart of Ireland, the yew bow, sings a tune etched amongst the soft susurrations of leaves in the forgotten wood. A weapon, not truly; an amulet, a bridge into the Othercrowd, where the Sídhe people whirl around in moonlight revelry and the banshee wails her sad song. Deep in the yew’s grain slumber stories of fighters and battles, of lovers, of legends, veiling the ever-present wisp of magic that lingers, like peat smoke on a damp autumn wind, somber, secretive as a darkened bog pool at dusk. Think, if you will, of Ireland’s untamed wilds in their infancy, whispers of the gods crossing the woodlands. One yew alone is proud, her arms raking the skies, her taproots drinking deep from the Artha’s ancient leavings. The bowyer approaches, his axe agleam as a splinter of starlight, a solemn prayer upon his lips. To fell a yew was never a thing of…