Penetrating Krytan Pistol of the Night

Penetrating Krytan Pistol of the Night rests on the desk like a shard of midnight, its barrel slender and black as a raven’s wing, the surface a satin-steel that drinks the lamplight. The grip is wrapped in supple Krytan saddle leather, polished to a whisper, with faint ridges that sit under the fingers like a map of old streets. Along the frame, sigils of Kryta coil in silver—moon-thin crescents and a ring of runes that catch every glint and return it with a shy glow. A moonstone sits in the butt, faintly pulsing when the air grows cooler and the city sighs with a breeze from the harbor. It feels almost alive in your hand, a weapon and a relic all at once, as if the night itself had pressed its quiet weight into the steel and left a memory behind. If you tilt the trigger just so, the hammer catches a brief, musical click and the pistol seems to listen—then you see its true face: a precision instrument born to slip through the blind spots of watchmen and weathered armor alike. The barrel’s mouth is fluted as if it had learned to whisper through steel, and the slide wears a patina that hints at travel and rain-soaked streets. Lore says it was forged in the old Krytan citadels, during nights when the city slept with one eye open, a tool of scouts who trusted silence as much as their sight. The Night, it is whispered, watches over its flaws and blesses its steadiness; in darker markets, the weapon earns a second, steadier heartbeat in the hands of those who know how to listen to the city at dusk. In the field, the Penetrating Krytan Pistol of the Night feels like a conversation with the shadows. It’s not a weapon built for blasting through crowds, but for finding gaps and catching a target unawares—the kind of edge that matters when you’re dancing along the thin line between pursuit and escape. The rounds are small and surgical, designed to bite through layered mail and stubborn hide where light rarely finds purchase. Paired with the right traits, it rewards patient positioning, quick-draw reflexes, and the discipline to wait for a tell in the opponent’s stance. It isn’t flashy, but it isn’t shy either; it behaves like a partner who knows your plan and won’t betray you to luck or noise. Price, too, becomes a thread in the larger tapestry of its legend. Traders talk about it in hushed tones, weighing steel against story as if the two could be separated. I heard a chestnut-haired dealer mutter that a pristine example can fetch a king’s ransom in some circles, while others bargain as if the night itself could be bought for a fair price. Saddlebag Exchange, a name that keeps resurfacing in the back alleys of Divinity’s Reach and the wheel-streets of Lion’s Arch, is where such pieces surface for moments between dawn and dusk. The stall’s ledger is thick with ink and rumor, and a well-tended pistol like this one can drift between buyer and seller on a current of whispered promises, glimmers of moonlight, and the mercantile math of scarcity. So the Penetrating Krytan Pistol of the Night remains not only a tool of survival but a storyteller’s spark. It sits on a shelf, it rests in a hand, and it travels through the city’s veins as quietly as a shadow slipping through a doorway. In the end, it’s more than metal and moonstone—it is a page torn from a night diary, a memory carried by those who walk the dim corners when lantern light falters.