Arin Spear
Survival Begins Here
"The wall cracked. Something came through. We didn’t know what it was—but Velis kept jabbing until it stopped moving. We still don’t know what it was. Doesn’t matter."
It doesn’t have the brutal suddenness of the chokuto, or the folk-hidden weight of the shillelagh. It isn’t a sleek thing meant to impress or intimidate. It has no ceremony attached to it, no tales sung over it in halls. It’s too short for parade drills, too plain for vanity, and too practical for bluffing. The short spear exists because something needed to be stabbed, then and there, without needing to justify why. In the Agriss Mountains and the vault settlements beneath them, short spears are everywhere. People don’t talk about them. They don’t show them off. They just keep them handy. Packed into trail kits. Hung by the doors of homes. Strapped to sleds. Tied to the side of walking packs or stowed under carts. Sometimes carried openly across the back, sometimes leaned beside a cookstove. You might even mistake one for a walking pole with a strange end—until you hear it split something in the dark. At its heart, the spear is what it sounds like: a weapon no longer than a forearm and a half, sometimes less. It is meant to be wielded in one hand, braced with speed, and used in tight quarters. It’s not built for skirmish lines or massed charges. It’s for when something gets close, and something has to die before it gets closer. People don’t train with spears to win duels. They learn how to end ambushes, to turn blind corners, to kill what comes out of the vault you thought was empty. Most are forged with a simple, leaf-shaped head—double-edged, wide enough to open flesh but narrow enough to push deep without snagging. The blade is socketed into a shaft of hardwood—stonepine, firebirch, or vault-treated icewood. Some shafts are reinforced with thin iron rings or bone caps. Others are plain, oiled, and worn down by use. The haft may be carved for grip, or wrapped in cord, hide, or thick oil cloth. There’s no standard. Only what works.
And that’s the key. What works. Arin spears don’t follow a martial design lineage. They follow need. Farmers carry them into the high terraces to ward off ice-tusks and mountain scavengers. Vault teams bring them into the dark where bows are useless and there’s no room to swing a sword. Couriers strap them to their legs beneath cloaks. House guards keep them near doorways, not because protocol demands it, but because it’s smarter to keep something sharp near where you live. In many cases, the spear serves as a second or third weapon. Something drawn after something else fails. Something that can be thrown if the odds demand it, even if most users would rather not lose it that way. They're light enough to use fast, but heavy enough to end a fight in a single, precise strike. Some are modified—changeling-forged or artisan-built—with collapsible shafts, hidden compartments, or spike-grip butts. Others are carved by hand with trail markers, knot-maps, or simply left bare. A spear in Areeott isn’t a weapon that demands to be seen. It’s a weapon that waits. It doesn’t care about your title. It doesn’t care if you’re armored or if you came to parley. If it’s drawn, something went wrong. And if it’s used, that wrong thing was corrected. Stormwatch scouts carry them into the blizzard white, not because they want to look dangerous, but because they understand what comes through the Pass doesn’t stop for negotiations. In the dark, the spear is faster than a question. In the vaults, it’s lighter than panic. And in the cantons, it’s just another thing someone might be holding when they smile at you politely and ask if you’re passing through. No one brags about owning one. But everyone expects you to know how to use it. Not because you’re a warrior. Because you’re alive.
Mechanics & Inner Workings
"I was still falling when the spear caught the edge. If it hadn't, I'd be part of the valley now."
The Arin spear may be humble in shape, but its construction is anything but naive. Beneath its straightforward exterior lies a quiet sophistication born from centuries of necessity and refinement. Every line, every edge, every subtle addition to its form has been considered, debated, field-tested, and sharpened—because in the Agriss Mountains, the spear is not merely a weapon. It is a survival tool. A constant companion. A decision made of wood and steel. The blade itself is typically a leaf-shape or narrow wedge, forged from cold-tempered steel or iron-silver alloy, socketed into a dense hardwood shaft. But on one side of the blade—usually the right, though ambidextrous configurations exist—the edge is micro-serrated, not enough to hinder a thrust, but enough to saw through vine, rope, or sinew when there’s no time to dig for a proper blade. Hunters use it to field-dress game; vault runners use it to clear debris or cut emergency rigging; mountaineers might use it to saw notches into ice to anchor a line.
The base of the spear shaft is capped with a spike, often forged from black-iron or silvered steel, flat-ground to a chisel point. In mountain terrain, it functions as a stabilizer, digging into ice and stone as a walking aid. In emergencies, it becomes a secondary thrusting point—a reversal weapon, especially useful when grappling in close quarters or when the primary blade is lodged or broken. Among changeling smiths, it is common to embed a small hexagonal socket into the spike base, turning it into a crude but effective toolhead for vault locks or caravan gear. The haft itself is typically hollow-cored or reinforced with alloy sheathing, depending on the region and the artisan. Inside this shaft, craftsmen often build hidden compartments sealed by pressure caps or twist-locks, storing small survival gear—twine, waxcloth, a flint rod, folded trail maps, or medicinal salve sealed in waxskin. More advanced versions, usually commissioned by veteran trailrunners or House scouts, may include a compass bezel etched just below the spearhead, readable by touch in low light. Some spears are equipped with enforced lashings spiraling down the upper third of the shaft, which can be unwound to serve as rope, sling, or tie-down strap. Others bear shallow measuring grooves etched into the shaft at standard intervals—used by climbers to check vault descent lengths or avalanche threat depths. These marks are often missed by outsiders, mistaken for decoration or grip scoring. A rarer feature—usually only found on custom builds—is a removable spearhead, mounted via a socket-sleeve that locks with a silent twist. This allows the user to swap the blade out for other heads: a hook, a chisel, a harpoon point. In especially cold cantons, a few smiths offer spearheads with a ridge of fire-treated bronze designed to hold heat just long enough to burn through frozen binding or scare off beasts sensitive to warmth. Despite these variations, none of the additions detract from the weapon’s primary function. The Arin would never burden a tool with clutter. If it’s there, it’s there to be used. If it adds weight, it must justify its place. Even the best-crafted spear is nothing if it cannot be drawn in a breath and thrust without hesitation. In the end, the spear’s complexity is hidden in its plainness. To outsiders, it is a stick with a point. To those who know better, it is a knife, a saw, a brace, a lantern post, a tool, a final option when the dark is too close and the snow too deep to go fumbling for something clever. No one who carries one thinks of it as a weapon. Until they have to.
Manufacturing process
"People think you need a sword to kill a wyrm. You don’t. You just need to be beneath it when it lands and stab where the plates shift."
The crafting of an Arin short spear is not a ceremonial affair. It is a task approached with discipline, precision, and a kind of subdued reverence—not because the weapon is sacred, but because it is expected to work. Every time. No excuses. The process begins with the haft, and that choice is more deliberate than it might seem. The wood must be dense, weather-resistant, and strong enough to resist warping in the snowmelt and freezing fog of the cantons. Firebirch and stonepine are the most common choices, with vault-carved icewood used in higher altitudes or among changeling forgemasters. The shaft is shaped to the length of the intended user’s arm—typically between three and four feet—then smoothed, heat-dried, and sealed with a mixture of linseed oil, beeswax, and powdered iron filings, which helps keep the grain tight and resistant to moisture.
If the spear is meant to carry hidden tools or trail gear, the shaft may be bored through the center, then reinforced with a fitted alloy sleeve or layered hardwood lining. The compartment is usually sealed with a pressure-cap or twist-lock, sometimes masked by a false grip wrapping. These compartments are not decorative—they’re for carrying things like twine, oilcloth, fire shavings, or bone-needles. Trail tools. Survival gear. The kinds of things you might need at the edge of nowhere. The spearhead is forged separately. Its shape depends on purpose: a leaf-point for balanced thrust and throw; a narrow wedge for deeper penetration; or, in the case of monster-hunters or vault-runners, a broader head with partial serration on one edge for sawing through sinew, rope, or vines. The metal is almost always cold-tempered steel, though silver alloy is common among wardens and House Guards who patrol the deeper vaults or regions prone to wild incursions. After forging, the blade is socketed or pinned into place with brass or iron rivets, then aligned carefully to ensure it holds true under force. The butt-spike—that secondary blade—may be forged with the same material or fitted later. It’s shaped like a short chisel or diamond tip, sometimes hollowed to accommodate hex-sockets or vault-tool interfaces. The spike is sunk deep into the base of the shaft, then capped with a ring guard or steel collar to prevent splitting when used to brace on stone or ice. Fittings and wraps vary. Cord-grip lashings, often made of waxed fiber or leather, are wound around the upper haft, sometimes concealing measuring grooves, trail notches, or personal markings. Among changeling smiths, these are sometimes replaced with precision-etched glyphwork for tactile navigation—symbols a trained hand can feel in total darkness. The final stage is testing. But not against a straw dummy or battlefield model. No—each spear is tested in the way it’s meant to be used. It's driven into frozen loam. Braced across split stone. Used to pierce bark, saw rope, and hold weight against shifting terrain. Not every spear passes. The ones that do are cleaned, sharpened, and handed off with few words. There are no anointing oils. No declarations. Just the understanding that what you now hold could very well be the difference between returning from a climb, a vault, a patrol—or not. It is not a soldier’s weapon. It is a survivor’s promise. And in Areeott, that is a far more serious thing.
History
"They never teach you how to kill something when your hands are numb and the air's too thin to breathe. But a short spear doesn’t need much—just the right angle and no second thoughts."
The history of the Arin spear is older than any one clan, older than the border trails, older even than the stories carved into the inside faces of the vault doors. It did not begin as a weapon, and it has never pretended to be anything more than necessary. It began as a stick with a point—and in the Agriss Mountains, that was enough. When the first settlers clawed their way into the cold reaches of the cantons, what they needed wasn’t armor or banners or heavy swords. They needed something to keep the wild off their heels. A pole to test the snowdrift. A hook to help pull someone up from a fall. A stabbing point to finish a crippled beast before its thrashing tore open the last good tarp. The spear came with them not as a weapon, but as a companion—simple, durable, and brutally effective when it had to be. Early examples, many of which still survive in museum vaults or family hearths, are nothing more than fire-hardened shafts with iron or bone tips lashed on with sinew. Yet even those primitive shapes bear the marks of constant use. The butt is often scuffed from bracing on rock. The blade edges are reshaped, filed down over years, sometimes flattened altogether where they’d been used to dig out stoves or scrape ice from ledges. It was a farmer’s blade. A hunter’s hand. A tool of constant touch. Over generations, as metallurgy improved and weaponry became more specialized, the spear remained curiously untouched by overdesign. Its size and simplicity made it a perfect fit for people who had to move—through blizzards, through narrow switchbacks, across fractured ridges, and into places where two-handed weapons would tangle or weigh too much. Even when longer spears fell out of favor for battlefield formations, the spear endured—not as a primary armament, but as the thing you kept when all else became a burden. Its survival applications evolved naturally. In the high passes, it was used to test snow bridges. In the vaults, it doubled as a way to prod unstable surfaces or clear loose creatures from crawlspace vents. The bladed edge could be turned to cut lashings, shape firewood, pry open seams in cracked rock. When traveling through dragon-scar country or moving supplies across dangerous ice flows, the spear was never far. It wasn’t something you chose to carry. It was something you never left behind. And because it was always there, it became the natural fallback in combat. You already knew how it moved. You already knew how far it reached. It didn’t require a new stance or some esoteric form. It stabbed forward. And in Areeott, that was usually enough. In time, its use was adopted by border guards, trailwatchers, and House auxiliaries—not as a primary weapon, but as a reliable third arm. Vault engineers carried them with climbing hooks. Monks integrated them into practical kata for when the walking staff had to become something sharper. And while outsiders might call them crude, no one argues with the people still standing when the snow clears. It was never glorified. Never given a name. But the short spear survived every turn of history—not by changing itself, but by refusing to be replaced. It was never about killing. It was about staying alive. And in the history of Areeott, that has always been the greater skill.
Significance
"We found her curled in the rocks, spear broken, but blood on both ends. Three sets of tracks went in. Only one came out."
The Arin spear is not a symbol of martial honor. It is not a badge of office, nor a rite of passage. It does not carry the ceremonial weight of a noble’s blade or the reverence of a family-heirloom weapon. It has no place on a mantle, no gilded scabbard, no named legacy etched into its shaft. And yet, in Areeott, it is everywhere. Its significance lies in its ubiquity—its complete and unremarkable presence in nearly every aspect of daily life. The spear is a constant companion: behind the door of a home, beside the sled on a trade run, tucked under the sleeping roll of a hunter. It is not there to be admired. It is there to be used. That use is what makes it important. It’s a tool that cuts food, clears paths, props open vault doors, tests snow layers, defends livestock, ends predators, and saves lives. It is as close to a cultural baseline as any object can be. No one is taught to worship it, but everyone is taught to respect it. And when the moment comes—when something snarls from the dark, or breaks from the ice, or lunges from a vault crevice—there is often no time to think. Just reach, brace, and strike. That’s what the short spear is for. The strike that comes before thought. To the Arin, that readiness is part of who they are. They are not a people who posture or provoke. They are a people who end threats quickly. The short spear reflects that mindset better than any other tool. It does not look intimidating. It does not look deadly. And that is precisely the point. Its simplicity allows it to hide in plain sight, to be carried openly without suspicion, to be underestimated—right until it ends a fight in a single movement. Among House Guards and canton scouts, the short spear is not issued—it is assumed. Among trailwalkers and ridgefolk, it is passed on, quietly, like a piece of advice made of wood and steel. Changelings carve them into modular tools, some with secret compartments or compact assemblies. Monks carry them in staff rigs, disguised as walking poles until a wrist twist makes clear they are something else entirely. The spear’s lack of ceremony does not make it meaningless. It makes it trusted. It says something about the Arin: that the thing you should fear is not what’s shown, but what’s ready. That danger doesn’t announce itself. It waits. And when it moves, it moves once. The short spear is not sacred. It is necessary. And in Areeott, that’s more than enough.
"I had a knife, but it was the spear I trusted. Longer reach. Cleaner strike. The kind of weapon you don't have to be brave to use—you just have to survive."
Item type
Weapon, Melee
Current Location
Related ethnicities
Owning Organization
Rarity
Uncommon
Weight
3 lbs
Dimensions
30 to 42 inches
Base Price
5 gp
"The dragon’s wing tore through the grain store. I don’t remember running. Just that the spear was already in my hand when the thing reared back. I aimed for the eye. I don’t know if I got it. I just know it didn’t come back."
Comments