Penetrating Krytan Focus of the Hydromancer

Penetrating Krytan Focus of the Hydromancer rests in a shallow velvet-lined tray, its silhouette catching lamplight and throwing back a dozen tiny rainbows. The piece is slender and precise—a Krytan bronze shaft, cool and smooth to the touch, tapered to a needle point that seems ready to pierce iron wards. A riot of color runs along its length: a glassy aquamarine orb perched at the tip, murmuring with a faint internal glow, as if a windless current tugs at its core. The bronze fittings are etched with riverine runes, hair-thin lines that trace water’s path from source to sea; inlaid enamel swirls lap the orb like spray, catching light and restoring it to the same tranquil blue. It feels almost alive, breathing in quiet pulses when you lift it, as if it remembers every flood it ever witnessed in Kryta’s remembered channels. Lore clings to it as intimately as the water clings to stone. Forgers say the focus was born in a flooded labyrinth beneath a Krytan temple, where hydromancers coaxed life from a memory of rivers and storms. They say the "Penetrating" part came from an act of will: a blade of water that not only cut but pierced, reading through the channeled wards and dampening fields that enemies hoard to shield themselves. In the right hands, it is said, the focus can bend the course of a torrent’s magic, thinning the fog of illusion, letting hydromancer spells strike true, then rebound through the water’s own mirrors to heal allies rather than harm them. The focus becomes not just a tool but a conversation with a river: patient, exact, and merciless when necessary. In the field, it is prized for the way it channels water attunements—how it steadies a wave of healing, sharpens a spear of frost, or carves a path for a vengeance of streams to flow through a defender’s shield. It is the kind of relic that turns a skirmish into a story, where a single spell, cast with the focus’s help, can topple a stubborn barrier and reveal the path forward for an entire squad. Traders whisper of this focus as a centerpiece for a Hydromancer’s kit, a key that opens doors to both battlefield utility and quiet legends about forgotten canals and the city’s drowned memory. At Saddlebag Exchange, the paper tag trembles as a clerk speaks in a low, careful tone about price and demand. A fair offer is a few gold pieces, give or take, depending on reputation, season, and whether a buyer carries the odor of river-water or vault-dust about their boots. The buyer nods, paring away hesitation with coffee-sour bravado, and the deal closes with the same click as a lock unfastening on a boat hatch. The focus leaves the case with a respectful gravity, and the river, for a moment, seems closer than the market’s clamor, as if it has finally found a tongue to speak through the metal and glass. Its promise lingers long after the trade.