The bow felt unnaturally light in his hands as he lifted it from its resting place, almost weightless despite its obvious strength.
The grip seemed to mold itself to his palm, fitting as perfectly as if it had been crafted specifically for his hand. Something about it resonated with the faded divinity still lingering in his blood, not a recognition of the weapon itself, but of its purpose, its potential.
'It knows me,' he realized with a start. 'Or at least, it knows what I once was.'
He stood slowly, bow in hand, and turned back to the others. They were still deep in conversation, comparing notes on the fungal creatures and planning their next move.
No one appeared to notice anything unusual about the weapon he now held, or the way the nearby spores continued to dance more energetically in its presence.
