Orc Archer.jpg
These magical bows have been used for centuries by battlefield archers.

Description

These magical bows have been used for centuries by battlefield archers, skirmishers and scouts. It is traditional to whisper promises and secrets to the bow, and some mystically inclined archers swear that their arrows fly truer when they speak an oath or remind the bow of a past promise just before they loose their arrow. The Imperial Orcs in particular like to carve or paint the words of key oaths onto the wood of the bow. Each such oath increases the worth of the item, as well as celebrating the literacy of the wielders - something very important to a people who are descended from slaves.

In the League an Oathkeeper is sometimes called a Final Word, but often the crossbow is given an ironic or fanciful name such as Diplomacy or Compelling Argument referencing the ability of the crossbow to bring a conflict to a speedy conclusion. While a crossbow is often seen as a more pragmatic weapon than a longbow, many of the master archers of the League continue the practice of whispering oaths before firing it.

Rules

  • Form: Weapon. Takes the form of a bow or crossbow. You must be wielding this weapon to use its magical properties.
  • Requirement: You must have the marksman skill to bond to this item.
  • Effect:You gain one additional hero point.
  • Materials: Crafting an Oathkeeper requires nine ingots of green iron and five measures of ambergelt. It takes one month to make one of these items.
The gruff Holberger wasn't much to look at; a rheumy old bravo with a red-veined nose and a moustache you could lose a cat in. Paunch hung in a roll over his worn belt, and the battered pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth emitted clouds of fumes at seemingly random intervals. This, this, was Albrecht Heynes? The deadliest shot ever to come out of Holberg? The hero of the Graf's Gate massacre?

"According to my information, Signeur Bartelli, this is the man you want by your side if you are planning an expedition into barbarian territory."

"Your sources had better be right, Martellus" put in the young man sourly as he adjusted his finery, "If this is a waste of my time they'll be trying to find you a new cicisbeo position come the morning."

Albrecht wiped the beer foam from his moustache as the two guilders sat down at his table, uninvited. He belched loudly into the younger one's face and then grinned at his rat-faced companion, "Tell me the particulars, I'll name a price. You don't like the price you can go bugger yourself with a splintered broom-handle, because I don't negotiate." The young arse began to splutter about who he was and why he couldn't be talked to like that; all the usual palaver. Albrecht reached over and casually slapped him.

"Good manners? I don't have them, never needed them. I'm the best at what I do, and that's all that should matter to you. You want someone or something killed, and I can do that. So tell me the details, I'll give you a price - payable in advance, of course."

He puffed out another cloud of noxious weed-smoke, "And if you're thinking of having your two apes in the corner there come over and help teach me some manners, how long do you think they'll keep fighting after I pin your balls to the bench?" He pulled the beautifully intricate crossbow known as Final Offer out from under the table where it had been hiding, fully loaded and very deadly.