Penetrating Krytan Rifle of the Night

The Penetrating Krytan Rifle of the Night gleams with midnight patina, its barrel a slender black skeleton lacquered with runes that drink moonlight. The stock is carved from weathered Krytan yew, smooth to the touch, with grain like storm-tossed water and inlays of pale brass that catch every glint from a candle’s flicker. A moonstone optic sits above the action, haloed by a ring of cold steel, and the grip is wrapped in a coil of red sinew. When you lift it, the weight settles like a quiet threat, as if the night itself were pressing down on your shoulder. The engravings tell a patient story—stories of the Nightwatch in Kryta, of ambush and patience, of weapons that learned to think with their user—so the rifle feels less a tool and more a rumor given form. In the field it paces the wind. A shot lands with the hush of snowfall, traveling farther than its brass might suggest, a sphere of silence that seems to bypass the chatter of armor and weave through gaps others miss. Its purpose is piercing—armor, cover, doubt—so a practiced marksman can peel away the fog between two silhouettes. The rifle rewards discipline: patience, stance, breath held on the exhale as the moon climbs. It isn’t a weapon for reckless bravado; it is a partner for scouts who slip along eaves and rooftops, for leaders who want to thin a line without shouting a warning, for hunters who prefer quiet maps to loud maps. In the narratives of night raids and whispered exchanges, it becomes a keystone—the kind of tool that doesn’t shout its presence but makes a room feel suddenly smaller, the shadows a fraction more navigable. Markets of the world are not all brass and banners; some breathe on back alleys and under awnings, where the best stories are priced in copper and promises. Saddlebag Exchange is one such place, where a buyer and a seller meet between linen sacks and stacked crates, and the rifle moves with a measured, almost fated flip of a coin. If a keeper of trade in Divinity’s Reach or Lions Arch mentions the Penetrating Krytan Rifle of the Night, the price is never a simple tag; it’s a thread that tightens or loosens with every rumor spoken near a candle. Rumors say a few nights’ worth of coin or a fair trade of rare hides would seal a deal, but each tale ends with a nod from the stall-master and the exchange of a bag that feels heavier with significance than its weight would suggest. That is the world the rifle belongs to: a rumored instrument of quiet change, waiting in the right hands for the moment when the night is most alive and the shadow of a wall offers a clean channel to aim. It remains a reminder that some tools carry their own history, and that not power alone, but the storyteller who wields it, writes the next chapter.