"So, sunset at the fountain, got it." With that, the group turned and walked away, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestone streets of Balkerteret. Friends they were, having bonded into a close-knit unit over the years. For Sern, that bond was only seven years old, while Bartel, Grendor, and Hernkull had been together for at least a decade, their shared experiences on the "Wind's Whisper" spanning nearly ten years of seafaring adventures.
As the newcomer, Sern had always listened, learned, and fulfilled his duties with unwavering dedication. On the ship, he had been the marksman and knot master, his keen eyes and deft fingers earning him respect among the crew. But on land, he had found himself without weapons—not even a dagger, as his sword had long been lost to the depths of the sea during a particularly violent storm. He had never owned a bow, a fact that had always gnawed at him. But that was about to change. Uilly, the crafty dwarf with his bottomless bag of holding, had set them up with the loot drops, but Sern was still without a bow. Now, with the gold jingling in his pocket, he could make that right.
Before they left the clearing, Sern's voice cut through the air, tinged with excitement and a hint of weariness. "While Uilly sells the items, let's get a table and have a few pints and start the rest tomorrow, okay? Grendor, find that inn now. I need a bath, and can we stop at a clothes shop? I think a gem or two would be well spent on basic armor and some non-sail cloth underwear!" His words elicited hearty laughter from his companions, who nodded in agreement, their own bodies yearning for comfort after their long journey.
Grendor and the others, having visited Balkerteret during many voyages, quickly secured baths and a change of clothes. The feeling of fresh, clean fabric against their skin was a luxury they had almost forgotten. However, they held off on purchasing armor until Uilly could join them, knowing all too well that the dwarven smiths could be ruthless with other races in their negotiations.
The night that followed was full of merriment and celebration. Bartel and Sern, in particular, had finished their drinks with a flourish, their laughter ringing out above the tavern's din. As the new day dawned, they gathered for breakfast, the smell of freshly baked bread and sizzling meats filling the air. Bartel, still nursing the effects of the previous night's revelry, looked a bit worse for wear.
At Uilly's insistence, Sern and the rest made their way to the armorer's shop. The streets of Balkerteret were already bustling with activity, the air filled with the sounds of hammers on anvils and the calls of street vendors. The armorer's shop stood out among the other buildings, its sturdy stone walls adorned with intricate metalwork that spoke of the master craftsman within.
Faldrek Ironforge, the renowned dwarven armorer, greeted them with a gruff nod. His workshop was a marvel of dwarven engineering, filled with the rhythmic sounds of hammers striking anvils, the hiss of steam, and the warm glow of molten metal. The walls were lined with tools of every shape and size, each meticulously maintained and ready for use.
Faldrek himself was a sight to behold. A stout dwarf with a broad chest and muscular arms, he bore the marks of years spent working the forge. His beard, long and intricately braided, was adorned with small metal rings that clinked softly as he moved. His eyes, a deep blue that seemed to pierce through the very leather he worked with, were sharp and focused. He wore a thick leather apron over his sturdy clothes, and his hands, though calloused from years of work, moved with surprising dexterity and precision.
As Sern stood before him, Faldrek examined the young adventurer with a critical eye. "Stand still, lad," he grumbled, his voice a deep rumble like the echo of a distant thunderstorm. He began by measuring Sern's shoulders, chest, and arms, using a length of sturdy twine marked with precise increments. Each measurement was noted down in a small, leather-bound notebook, its pages yellowed with age and use.
Faldrek then selected several pieces of master-crafted leather armor from his collection, each one supple yet incredibly durable. He started with the chest piece, fitting it snugly over Sern's torso. "Breathe in," he instructed, adjusting the straps to ensure a perfect fit. The leather was cool against Sern's skin, but it warmed quickly, molding to his shape like a second skin.
Next, Faldrek moved to the pauldrons, securing them over Sern's shoulders with practiced ease. He tested the range of motion, making sure Sern could move his arms freely without any restriction. "Flex your arms," he commanded, watching closely as Sern complied. Satisfied, he moved on to the bracers, fastening them around Sern's forearms.
As Faldrek adjusted the bracers, his eyes widened in admiration. "By Moradin's beard, these are fine bracers!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine awe. "Bracers of Armor +3, no less. The craftsmanship is exquisite. Look at the detailing on the edges, the way the enchantment is woven seamlessly into the leather. Whoever made these was a true master of their craft."
He turned Sern's arm slightly, examining the bracers from different angles. "The balance is perfect, and the fit is impeccable. These will serve you well, lad. They offer protection without sacrificing mobility, a rare combination indeed."
Throughout the process, Faldrek's hands moved with the confidence of a true master. He adjusted each piece of armor with minute precision, ensuring that every strap and buckle was perfectly aligned. His touch was firm but gentle, and he occasionally muttered to himself in Dwarvish, a language that sounded like the grinding of stones.
Finally, Faldrek stepped back to admire his work. Sern stood clad in the finely crafted leather armor, feeling both protected and surprisingly agile. "There," Faldrek said with a nod of approval. "That should serve you well in battle. Remember, lad, armor is not just about protection. It's about balance and movement. Treat it well, and it will treat you well."
Sern thanked the master armorer, feeling a newfound sense of confidence and readiness. As he left the workshop, he couldn't help but marvel at the skill and dedication that had gone into crafting his armor. Faldrek Ironforge was truly a master of his craft, and Sern knew he was fortunate to wear the work of such a talented artisan.
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As Sern emerged from the armorer's shop, Grendor approached him, his elven features alight with excitement. "There's an Elven bow maker one street over," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "You should go there next while we finish up."
Determined to equip himself fully, Sern made his way to the bow maker's stall, his mind filled with the stories Grendor had shared over the years about the great Elven archers. A sense of wonder and anticipation built within him as he contemplated finding the perfect bow.
The bow maker's workshop was a marvel in itself, a stark contrast to the dwarven armorer's. Where Faldrek's shop had been all stone and metal, this place was alive with the essence of the forest. The walls were lined with bows of every shape and size, each one a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The scent of freshly carved wood and varnish filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the forest outside. Elven artisans worked quietly in the background, their hands moving with practiced ease as they shaped and polished new creations. The light from the high windows cast a warm glow over the room, highlighting the intricate designs etched into the bows.
As Sern entered, an Elven craftsman approached him, his ageless face a mask of polite disdain. "Sir, it would seem that none of our bows would be a match for one such as yourself," the contempt in the elf's voice made Sern's teeth grind.
Refusing to be dismissed so easily, Sern replied, "Master Elf, I beg to differ. Do you have a target range here?" The elf nodded, a hint of curiosity breaking through his aloof demeanor. "Good. If I can't hit three out of three targets on your range, I will not darken your doorstep again. Just hand me a bow and point out the targets."
The elf's eyes glinted with amusement and challenge. "Master Human, I will take you up on that with one addition: you may pick any bow you wish from this wall," he said, gesturing to the far wall adorned with the most beautiful bows Sern had ever seen. "If you hit those three targets, you may take it with you as your prize."
"Deal!" Sern spat on his hand as the elf did the same, and they smacked them together to seal the bargain, saying in unison, "Done and done!"
Sern walked along the wall, his fingers brushing against each bow. Each one sent a tingle along his arm, but one jolted his whole body. Without even testing it, he declared, "This one, Master Elf. This will be mine, or no bow will I ever use again!" It was a black beauty, a bone bow thicker than a normal composite longbow. He knew it would be a strong pull but never believed it would take the effort that it would.
The tall elf smiled at him, a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice as he purred, "As you wish, Sir." It was as if this would have been the bow he would have picked to defeat Sern as well. "This quiver of arrows, Sir," the elf handed him a quiver of blackened arrows with bright red carved heads. "These arrows are made just for this bow here in our shop."
When the bow exchanged from the elf's grip to Sern's, he felt a surge of energy, and by the look on the elf's face, he did as well. The self-assuredness faded to a look of doubt. "The range is this way," and he showed Sern the way.
"The range is 50 Elven paces long. You will hit a bird-sized target at 20 paces, 30, and 50 paces to win your bow. You will be allowed four arrows; the first one is for you to sight in the bow." It was apparent that this was not the first time something of this nature had taken place here; it may even be the only way one could gain ownership of any of their bows.
The bone bow was still shocking Sern's arm, but it was not harmful; it was more of reassurance. He nodded to the elf and moved to the line on the floor, setting his belongings to the side. He took his place at the line. Looking down the alley, this shot was closer to 35 paces, then he remembered what the elf said, "Elven paces," but it did not matter.
He notched the arrow, raised the bow, and gripped the string to pull it back. It was then the knowing smile of the elf made sense; this was one of the legendary Elven Mighty bows. It was easily the hardest bow Sern had ever pulled in his life, before or since. Determined, he drew back the bow inch by inch until the bowstring reached his cheek and kissed his lips. He drew a bead on the target, his entire body quivering with the strain.
He felt more than heard the cracking of knuckles, once, twice, and a third time. Ignoring it at the time, thinking the elves were trying to distract him, he found his target. The bow itself was the thing cracking, and the draw became easier. The bow's arms unfolded into a set of small dragon-like wings. He held his aim true and let fly his first arrow. It hit the target, but it didn't stop there—it punched through the back of the target and hit the one 30 paces behind it as well.
Sern's stance had not changed. The bow was more than he could have ever imagined; it would never be a rapid-fire bow, but whatever it hit would stay hit. He inspected the new look of this incredible bow. As he drew the bowstring back, the bow's arms began to unfold, revealing a set of small, dragon-like wings. Each unfurled with a small bone pop that could be heard or rather felt as each segment expanded. The intricate carvings and runes on the bow's limbs started to glow brighter, and the embedded gems pulsed with energy. The bow's transformation was mesmerizing, with the natural bone whites and deep, rich hues from the gems creating a striking contrast. The wings unfurled gracefully, enhancing the bow's visual appeal and amplifying its power. The entire bow exuded an aura of ancient power and untamed magic, making it a truly legendary artifact.
The elf walked to Sern's side, as those in the shop who had gathered looked on in awe, and said, "Master Human, you are the first human to ever draw the bow and strike the target, let alone hit two at one time. This is your bow. Speak to her your true name and bind the bow to you forever." A true name is the name which your mind uses when it thinks of itself; the elven people use it in much of their spell weaving. "Now I will know how you're called, if you please?"
The elven weapons master stared at the bow in the youth's hand. Never before in its time at the store, nor in the many stories of it, had it ever revealed itself as anything but a magical yet normal bow. This transformation was unheard of.
Sern told the Master Elf his name, "I am called Sern Noki."
"Master Noki, this bow has been in my shop for one hundred years. Men of greater stature have tried and failed to win it as you have done, as we do not sell our bows. These bows are sung from either a tree or great magical creatures by the great crafters in Elfhome itself. Every bow crafted this way waits for a wielder. For one hundred years, every child born to us has their hand laid on weapons such as these to find its true wielder. If none are found, the crafted item makes its way into our shops where they await their wielder. This one has chosen you as its wielder, and you will find as you use it, it will get easier as long as you believe in what you do."
Sern's voice, barely a breath, carried the weight of his true name as he spoke it to the bow. The wood, dark and polished, seemed to pulse in response, and this time, the bow's reaction was violent. An intense heat bloomed in his hand, like holding a brand from a fire. He yelped, and the bow slipped from his fingers.
When he looked at his palm, a perfect bullseye was burned into his skin, the edges still glowing faintly. The same mark, an exact replica, was now branded into the bow's grip, marring the smooth wood. Yet, before the bow could strike the ground, it seemed to levitate, returning to Sern's grasp with an almost sentient grace.
"The bow recognizes its master," the voice intoned, closer now. "You wield the Mighty Bow of True Shot. It is a +5 bow, of course, but its true power lies in the gift of True Shot. Five times each day, you can call upon this power to ensure your arrows strike true, bypassing all but the strongest magical wards. Note the five gems inlaid along the bow's riser. Each one darkens as a True Shot is expended, a visual reminder of your remaining power. When all are dark, your skill and the bow's inherent magic are your only guide. And this quiver, crafted from the hide of a shadow beast, is ever-replenishing. It will always hold twenty arrows. Should it ever be emptied, speak aloud the glyphs carved into its front, and it will refill itself."
