Arin Yklwa

The First Blade at the Dragon's Throat

“They say the sword is the soul of a warrior. The yklwa is the gut feeling that keeps him alive.”

— House Takana Proverb

The Arin yklwa is a weapon that defies the outsider’s eye. It appears too short to be a proper spear, too plain to be revered, and too heavy to serve as a throwing arm. Yet to those who know the terrain of the Agriss, who’ve walked the narrow switchbacks above the high passes or crept through the low stone halls of the Vaults, the yklwa is understood for what it is: a perfect answer to a specific kind of problem. This is not a battlefield spear. It is not designed for formation combat, for shields and charges and set bracing against a line of cavalry. It is a mountain spear, cut short for tight quarters, weighted for thrusting through fur and scale, and built to be retrieved after the first strike. The Arin did not design it for glory. They designed it for survival. The shaft is rarely longer than three feet, often closer to two and a half. It is traditionally carved from firebirch, stonepine, or icewood—dense, cold-resistant mountain woods that can take punishment without splitting. Most shafts are oiled and sealed, their grain polished smooth through use. The haft may be straight or slightly tapered, depending on regional preference or the maker’s hand, and many include finger-grooves or grip etchings worked subtly into the design. In some versions, the shaft conceals hidden compartments—cord, flint, medicinal vials, even emergency darts—but never at the expense of balance. The blade is wide, leaf-shaped, and double-edged, forged from cold steel and fitted flush against the haft with a metal collar or socket joint. Arin bladesmiths take pride in making the blade an extension of the shaft, not a separate element, and the weld is often reinforced with resin and binding under the mounting. The result is a weapon that strikes more like a punch than a throw—direct, final, and forceful. In some cases, monster hunters will modify the blade with barbs or sawback teeth, especially when facing thick-hided quarry. But for most, the weapon remains clean, streamlined, and intentionally simple. The yklwa is used almost exclusively in the upper cantons and along the deeper trails of the Vaults, where larger weapons are impractical and where a drawn-out fight often means death. In these tight, snow-slick corridors and shadowed caverns, a quick thrust is worth more than ten showy cuts. The yklwa can be carried at the hip, along the back, or—more commonly—disguised as a trail tool. Some versions are built into walking sticks. Others slot into shovel handles, ice axes, or sled frames. To a casual observer, it might look like nothing more than a trekking spike. To an Arin, it is a question with one answer. Among the changeling makers of the Vaults, the yklwa has become a particular favorite. The limited space allows them to integrate clever design without overcomplicating the weapon. Flip-lock handles, nesting segments, or concealed bindings are common. Still, no one makes a yklwa fancy. It isn’t a noble’s weapon. It’s something you trust to do its job, over and over, without ceremony or fail. Despite its humble appearance, the yklwa holds a quiet place in Arin tradition. It’s often the first weapon a young hunter or trail guide learns to use, and among monster slayers, it's not uncommon for a favorite yklwa to stay in service for decades. Some are patched and reforged until nothing but the core remains of the original. Others are buried with their owners, the blade wrapped in cloth and ash. They are not named. They are not anointed. But they are remembered. In a culture that values survival over spectacle, the yklwa earns its place through reliability. It isn’t revered, but it is respected. The people who carry them don’t speak often of the blade, because there’s nothing to say. They carry it because it works, because it lasts, and because it does what it’s meant to when the moment comes.

Mechanics & Inner Workings

“It doesn’t need reach. It needs to stop something before it takes another step.”

— Kerin Halver, mountain warden

The Arin yklwa is a weapon of economy—short, direct, and engineered for swift use in tight spaces. It does not rely on elaborate mechanics or enchantments. Instead, its effectiveness comes from the balance of its materials, the confidence of its construction, and the thoughtful integration of secondary functions hidden within what appears to be a simple survival tool. The shaft is made from dense mountain wood, chosen not only for strength but for its resistance to moisture and extreme cold. The balance point is typically placed just forward of the halfway mark, allowing the wielder to guide the weapon with precision while retaining enough forward weight for decisive thrusts. Some shafts include subtle grip notches or recessed grooves for the fingers, often tailored to the individual user. While most yklwas appear smooth and unadorned at a glance, a trained hand can feel the subtle indicators that mark orientation, grip position, or a hidden latch. The blade is socketed deeply into the haft, secured with a friction fit and reinforced with binding beneath a metal collar. This creates a solid transition between wood and steel, allowing the weapon to strike with full force without risking a split or wobble at the join. The blade is typically leaf-shaped—wide enough to open a fatal wound, narrow enough to withdraw cleanly even if the target is thick-skinned or armored. It is sharpened on both edges and slightly tapered at the tip for penetration. In some variants, monster hunters file the blade’s base to add saw-like teeth, while others coat the inner collar with pitch or wax to reduce moisture draw in wet climates. The mechanics of concealment are where Arin craftsmanship shows its subtleties. Many yklwas are disguised as hiking staves, walking sticks, or utility rods. The heads may be capped with removable pikes, steel tools, or decorative knobs that, when removed or twisted, reveal the blade beneath. In higher-quality weapons, especially those made in the Vaults, locking rings and internal rails keep the weapon stable during use while preventing unintended exposure. These features are not visible from the outside. Even a close inspection won’t reveal the blade unless one knows precisely how to access it. A few versions include modular features—small compartments inside the haft, hidden hinges near the base, or detachable handles. These additions are rare and always mechanical rather than magical. Magic, especially enchantments that affect weight or heat, are avoided because they risk revealing the weapon’s true nature or interfering with its performance in natural conditions. Practicality takes precedence over flair. The yklwa does not require advanced training to use. Its strength lies in its intuitive form: a sharp point, a firm grip, and a reach just long enough to keep danger out of arm’s length. It works in hallways, on icy ledges, in the mouth of a cave or the belly of a trail-cart. It does not catch on stone or drag through snow. It needs no flourish to function. Everything about the yklwa is deliberate. It is short because space is limited. It is stout because hesitation kills. It is simple because nothing else will do.

Manufacturing process

“We mark the good ones by how often they come back to be sharpened.”

— Vaultsmith Tolen Reft, tools and weapons ledger

The crafting of an Arin yklwa is a practical, methodical process shaped by the cold logic of mountain life. It is not an art passed down through ceremony, but a skill learned through necessity. While some bladesmiths and woodworkers in Areeott specialize in the weapon, many families and small workshops build their own using local materials and time-tested techniques. There is no singular ritual tied to its creation—only the understanding that the finished weapon must be reliable, resilient, and ready. The process begins with the selection of the haft wood. Local species such as firebirch, stonepine, or icewood are preferred for their strength, density, and resistance to splitting under cold or pressure. The wood is dried and seasoned, then shaped by hand or lathe into a smooth, tapered shaft typically between two and three feet in length. Some makers carve subtle grooves or inlays into the grip for better control, while others keep the haft plain to better disguise its function. The blade is forged separately by a smith, often one with experience in producing tools as well as weapons. The design is always a variation of the same leaf-shaped geometry—wide at the shoulders, narrow at the tip, with a double edge and a strong central spine. The blade is tempered through a cold-forging process that accommodates the high altitude’s fluctuating temperatures and ensures durability without brittleness. The base of the blade is shaped to fit into a reinforced socket or tang channel carved into the haft. The joining of blade and shaft is critical. The blade is fitted tightly, then bound with resin-soaked linen or rawhide and sealed beneath a metal collar or band. This creates a clean transition from haft to edge without compromising structural integrity. In hunting or guard-issue models, the collar may be weighted to improve balance or reinforced to serve as a striking surface. In disguised versions, the collar is often masked beneath a removable tool head or concealed cap. Once assembled, the weapon is carefully balanced and tested. This includes thrust drills, pressure flex tests, and draw-speed assessments if the weapon is meant to be concealed. Vault-based makers, especially among the changelings, may add modular features such as hidden compartments or nested tools inside the haft. These are engineered with mechanical precision using spring-loaded pins, twist-lock segments, or fitted slats—but never at the cost of weight or stability. The final step is the finishing process. The shaft is treated with wax or oil to seal it against moisture and frost. Some artisans add grip cord, lacquered coating, or carved insignia, though these are usually kept subtle. The finished weapon is often wrapped in cloth and stored in plain sight—mounted to a sled, packed into trail gear, or leaned by the door. There is no naming, no marking of a weapon’s “completion,” and no ceremony to bless it. If the weapon draws blood when it must, it is considered finished. A yklwa is not a display piece. It is a companion, built with care, tested without vanity, and maintained because it may one day be the only thing standing between its bearer and death. That is the measure of its craftsmanship. And that is how it has always been made.

History

“There’s always one somewhere in the room. That’s what you have to remember.”
— Sarna Telvik, traveling historian

The history of the Arin yklwa does not begin with legend or ceremony. It begins, as most things in Areeott do, with necessity. The weapon emerged out of the demands of mountain life—tight quarters, uncertain trails, the ever-present threat of predators, raiders, and worse crawling from the Vaults or descending from the high passes. The long, formation-ready spears of the lowland kingdoms proved too unwieldy for such terrain, and traditional swords often lacked the immediate stopping power needed against the kinds of threats that came quickly, without warning, and at close range. The yklwa evolved as the answer to a specific problem: how to kill quickly, in one movement, and remain standing. Early examples were no more than heavy hunting spears cut short for travel, or long knives lashed to walking sticks. Over time, they were refined—shortened to reduce drag, broadened for penetration, weighted for handling in one hand. The changelings of the Vaults contributed to its evolution early, developing tighter construction methods and compact hidden sheaths. Among the Fremin and the lower cantons, it spread by use rather than instruction. One family forged a better haft, another learned how to brace the blade socket against cracking, and slowly, the weapon took on a shared shape without ever being standardized. The oldest known surviving examples are from family caches and recovered trail packs from the mid-fifth century. These weapons are rougher than modern versions—thicker blades, cruder welds, often wrapped in cloth or crude resin for grip—but the silhouette is unmistakable. Some were carried by mountain runners tasked with delivering messages between passes, others by low-vault guards or trail sentries. A few were recovered near collapsed entrances or ruin markers, with blade and haft preserved by frost or sediment. While these weapons have no individual names, some have been preserved in the canton archives, not as relics of war, but as artifacts of endurance. The yklwa saw no great battles, led no charges, and earned no glory on distant fields. Its presence in history is quieter. It is seen in the background of other people’s stories—in the hands of the scout who warned a canton before an attack, or buried beside a villager who held the line long enough for others to escape. During the Vault Siege of 612, entire units of inner defenders were issued yklwas in place of longer weapons, due to the confined space and risk of rebound in the narrow tunnels. It was in these moments—not in ceremony or conquest—that the weapon earned its place in Arin memory. Today, there are makers who trace their craft back through four or five generations. Not as inheritors of some sacred tradition, but as practical smiths and woodworkers who learned what worked and continued improving it. A handful of blades have remained in service long enough to become quiet heirlooms—patched, re-welded, re-wrapped—and passed down not because of legend, but because they never failed. In most homes, it is simply kept by the door, or under the pack straps, or lashed to a sled. If it has a story, it’s written in scars, not inscriptions. The history of the yklwa is not told in songs. It’s told in places where no one else walked away.

Significance

“It never hangs on a wall. It’s never far from reach.”

— Observation recorded by Mirren Vol, Imperial ethnographer

The yklwa holds significance in Arin culture not because of ceremony or myth, but because of how quietly and consistently it serves. It is not a weapon of prestige or tradition in the way an ancestral sword might be. It is rarely the centerpiece of a tale, and almost never spoken of directly. Its importance lies in its reliability, in its presence at moments that mattered, and in the unspoken trust that surrounds it. For many Arin, especially those living near the Vaults or along the high trails, the yklwa is the first real weapon they learn to carry. It is small enough to teach safely, simple enough to repair, and effective enough to be counted on when something dangerous appears where it shouldn’t. It is a weapon that does not require mastery to be useful, but rewards precision and discipline when used well. It is taught as part of survival, not as a rite of passage. By the time an Arin adult takes one on a journey, they already know how to hold it, how to draw it quickly, and where to place the point if they want something to stop moving. The weapon has no ceremony attached to its creation. It is not blessed, nor is it named, and the act of carrying one does not mark a person as anything special. That, in itself, speaks to its place in the culture—it is not a symbol, it is a standard. To see one on a sled or pack frame is no more remarkable than seeing a waterskin or a climbing axe. But that familiarity does not breed carelessness. The people of Areeott may not speak of the yklwa often, but they do not disrespect it. Everyone knows what it’s for. And everyone knows what it means if someone takes it in hand. It is also a weapon of reaction, not aggression. The act of reaching for one is usually the clearest sign that something has gone wrong. In many settlements, an elder’s quiet motion toward a bundled yklwa can clear a room faster than a shouted warning. It is understood that if the weapon is in hand, the time for discussion has already passed. Its role in public life is subdued but ever-present. Monster hunters carry them openly, but without flair. Vault sentries keep them near the entranceways, often paired with lanterns or warding bells. In private homes, they are stored within reach but rarely displayed. When one becomes old enough to be considered an heirloom, it is because it has seen generations of use, not because it was crafted for that purpose. In short, the yklwa matters because it is trusted. It reflects the Arin ethos—simple, quiet, practical, and deadly only when it must be. Its significance lies not in what it represents, but in what it allows the people to survive. And in Areeott, that is the highest purpose anything can serve.

“I’ve seen officers throw away swords to pick up a yklwa instead. You don’t need a duel. You need the thing to die.”

— Lara Thane, borderland courier