Penetrating Krytan Axe of Serpent Slaying

The Penetrating Krytan Axe of Serpent Slaying gleams under lamplight, its head dark as a midnight tide. The blade is narrow and broad at the edge, tempered to a blue-black sheen that seems to drink the candle's flame. Serpentine etchings coil along the metal, scales hammered into relief, catching every glint as if a real serpent were writhing within the metal. The haft is a stout shaft of Krytan ash, lacquered in a deep mahogany stain, bound with bronze rivets that press into the wood like old tree rings. The grip is wrapped in stitched leather, dyed the color of dried blood, knotted with a simple loop for a quick lift. At the throat sits a carved amulet—a coiled cobra inlayed with faint runes—that hums softly when the wind shifts from marsh to road. The lore says the axe was forged in Divinity's Reach by a smith named Tern whom serpents had once haunted. They say the piece was blessed by an exile priest who swore the blade would pierce the heart of a serpent and leave its scales in reverence, not bloodshed. In the marketplace tales, the blade's edge rings with the memory of caravans that trusted it to clear the path through a nest of venom and bone. It isn't just a tool; it's a witness to the world’s long uneasy alliance with the serpents that stalk the marshes and crags. When the blade swings, the serpent's resistance yields—armor quivering, skin parting, a tremor that travels up the wrists and into the chest. In the field, the Penetrating Krytan Axe of Serpent Slaying earns its keep in more ways than one. Hunters who camp near the river bend claim it makes short work of armored serpents guarding their brood; raiders who press into the salt flats find that a single, practiced arc shivers through their lines and leaves behind a tail of scales and ash. It is the kind of weapon soldiers and scouts pass along in a caravan's quiet hours, the edge sharing a rumor with the wind as it glints over a table of maps. Its nickname—Serpent Bane—travels from campfire to tavern, a badge of trust that the wielder can navigate both the terrain and its hidden dangers. On days when the market purls with coins and rumor, I watch the bargain unfold at Saddlebag Exchange, where a clerk weighs the metal against the ledger. The price drifts in the light—roughly a gold and a half, a sum that feels earned given the blade’s narrative heft and its practical bite. Fingers pause on coin pouches, and someone smiles at the thought of weathering another season’s serpent trouble. The exchange is more than profit; it's stewardship, a way to pass along a blade that has earned its keep through blood, wood, and wind. And so the Penetrating Krytan Axe of Serpent Slaying remains not merely a weapon, but a chapter in the road, waiting for the next traveler who believes some stories are carved in steel.