Penetrating Krytan Short Bow of the Night

Penetrating Krytan Short Bow of the Night rests in the palm of a weathered trader, its limbs twin-slick with black lacquer that catches the light like a dropped moon. The stock is carved from Krytan yew, its grain a tight, almost whispering pattern that seems to coil beneath the finish, as if the wood remembers every arrow ever drawn from it. The grip is wrapped in a faded leather that has seen a hundred dawns, worn smooth by calloused fingers, while the notch at the tip gleams with a silvery edge, as though a single moonbeam could cut through the night and leave a bright answer on the palm of your hand. Inlays of bone-white runes trace along the riser, faintly warm to the touch on a humid evening, and when the bow is drawn, the carved sigil of a night-watcher seems to slide into sharper focus, like a shadow waking up under a streetlamp. Lore clings to this bow as if the night itself had pressed its lips to the grain. They say it was crafted by a Krytan hunter who vanished into the city’s forgotten backstreets during a moonless vigil, the wood soaked in whispers from the Night Watchers and the quiet pressure of a dozen silent arrows. The name “Penetrating” is not merely decorative—those who have held the bow claim that its arrows bite through armor with a ruthless, quiet certainty, as if the very air around the foe grows heavier and easier to pierce. It’s a weapon of restraint and precision, the kind that asks you to wait, to place your shot exactly where the target’s guard is thinnest, and to trust a single, well-timed breath to carry the strike. In the rough ballet of skirmishes and ambushes, the bow makes itself felt through its balance and its call. It is light enough to flick through a quick weave of trees on a patrol route, heavy enough to throttle the sting of a distant pull that would break a lesser weapon’s trust. The arrows fired from it tend to carry a steady, piercing glow of impact—enough to peel back the front line, enough to make a hunter believe in the sudden, almost quiet victory that follows a well-planned shot. For those who move with the night, it is a companion that rewards patience, steadiness, and a keen sense of where light stops and shadow begins. In a world that often asks rangers to gamble with thunder, this bow offers a different kind of gamble—one where restraint can turn the tide before a single cry is raised. The market tell of it is a story all its own. A stall tucked near the old aqueducts would often boast of rare finds, and on one brisk evening it found its way into a conversation at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle with the soft clink of coins and the rasp of parchment ledgers. The price was spoken of in careful tones, with the bargaining culture of caravans shaping the deal, a balance of gold, trade goods, and stories—each barter a small oath that the night will hold its end of the bargain. I walked away with the sense that this bow is not merely metal and wood, but a road home for anyone who knows how to listen to the night and wait for it to answer.