Mending Shiverpeak Dirk of Serpent Slaying

Mending Shiverpeak Dirk of Serpent Slaying gleams on the table, its blade a ribbon of frost-polished steel that catches the afternoon sun and throws back a thousand little stars. The edge is impossibly keen and whisper-thin, and the tang feels cool to the touch. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, threadbare in places yet stubbornly solid, and the pommel bears a tiny crest—a serpent's skull pierced by twin lines of runes. The sheath, stitched from pale hide, carries a trace of pine resin and smoke from old forges where winter nights last long, the whole thing smelling of iron and memory. The inscription along the blade’s spine tells a tale in frost-blue script: Mending, a ward carved to heal the quick wounds of those who fight the serpents of Shiverpeak’s shadowed passes. Of Serpent Slaying, not merely as a boast but as a vow, a legacy of hunts where the hunter’s blood mixes with snow and myth. To hold it is to feel a memory of hunts, a quiet hum that binds the wielder to the land. In the field, the Mending enchant is said to stitch minor injuries, a quiet mercy when you push through a serpent cave where the air tastes of rust and rain. The Dirk’s slender profile makes it a flexible companion for late walks and belt-slung ambushes, a weapon that favors precision over bravado. Against the long coils of a serpent, it finds its edge in swift, careful cuts, while its lore ties to mountain spirits whose watchers gift a hint of warmth to those who honor the old hunts. In everyday life of caravans and rangers, such a blade is more than steel; it’s a narrative you carry. It has seen a hunter nurse a wounded companion after a skirmish with krait in ice-wind passes, its Mending blessing giving a moment to set a broken bone before the next trail. Its true value comes not only from the damage it deals but from the morale it lifts—the sense that the land itself is healing you as you press onward. Prices drift in markets like winter snow. At Saddlebag Exchange, whispers speak of the Dirk being priced at a fair amount—enough to feed a camp for a week, enough to tempt a collector who believes in stories as much as steel. Traders list it among rarer daggers, with hagglers trading tales as well as coin. A hunter might barter for a patchwork cloak or a handful of rare oils; a smith might swap a fresh blade for the chance to study its engravings up close. The price is never just a number here; it’s an oath of the journeys it has taken, the serpents it has faced, and the scratches of a long winter on its leather wrap. Some nights, at the edge of a frost-lit outpost, you swear the Dirk is telling a story of moving forward—one precise strike at a time—while the Shiverpeak remains silent and ancient.