Lore Scroll: Mage Hunter Arrow

Lathra scowled menacingly at the bow she held, its sleek form glinting in the dim light of the evening. Nightaim was not just an ordinary weapon; it was a magic-infused tool, imbued with powers that could easily pierce the toughest armor but also had a reputation for unpredictability. The wood, dark as the night sky, seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and the intricate carvings along its limbs whispered of ancient enchantments.

This magic-infused bow was notoriously fickle, a lesson she had learned well from her teacher, an experienced ranger and mage who had often warned her about the capricious nature of such weapons. He had recounted tales of skilled archers who had misjudged their enchanted bows, only to find their arrows veering off course at the most critical moments. "Always be wary of the magic you wield," he had advised her, his voice grave as he recounted the stories of those who had suffered dire consequences due to their overconfidence.

Nightaim had earned both her trust and suspicion over time. There were moments when the bow had performed flawlessly, its arrows flying true and finding their mark with deadly accuracy. During one memorable mission, it had saved her life by flinging an arrow silently through a wall, just as a guard turned to sound an alarm. Yet, there were also times when it felt as though the bow had a mind of its own, the strings vibrating with a strange energy that seemed to pull her aim off course, leaving her frustrated.

The moon was just beginning to show overhead as panic set in. The crowd, now realizing the bishop had been assassinated in front of their eyes, pushed suddenly in all directions, attempting to scatter. Lathra felt a strange sort of fascination watching a crowd after a sudden traumatic event. She was not interested in the ones who cowered in fear or abandoned their families and charges in their own self-interest. She wasn't even interested in the ones who immediately started scanning the rooftops, searching for the assassin. She was interested in those who didn't care.

Lathra spotted him first. Slender, bearded, with cold eyes that seemed to pierce through the growing darkness with certainty. As the crowd scattered around him, he seemed to be pre-occupied with a book, his delicate finger tracing words she didn't recognize. Fingers attached to hands that hadn't seen a hard day's labor in years, maybe never. On instinct, she pulled an arrow out of a small notch on the side of her quiver, and that instinct likely saved her life.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The mage looked directly at her with a wry smile on his face, and a bolt of ice exploded from the book. Nightaim immediately came alive, the runes along the upper and lower limbs dancing with infused magic. Suddenly the arrow became nearly too hot to handle, and Lathra lunged to the right as she hastily shot the arrow at the ice bolt, just as her instructor had taught her. The arrow slammed into the bolt, and they seemed to merge together. The sight lasted only for a moment, then exploded in mid-air.

As Lathra continued her dive, she pulled a second arrow from the same notch and watched curiously as the runes enchanted the arrow once again, giving it a soft magic glow. As she knocked and drew, she looked up again at the eyes of the mage, whose cold demeanor had shifted into a smoldering rage. Now it was her turn to smile as she let lose a bolt of her own.