The Shaman's Shiverpeak Dirk of Agony catches the light with a frost-dim gleam, its slender blade etched in pale blue sigils that curl like breath over ice, the grip wrapped in tanned, bear-hide leather scarred from years of use. A thin edge of frost clings to the fuller, weaving a micro-grid of chill that seems to hum when the metal meets air, as if the weapon itself is listening for a pulse in the room. The hilt bears a bone washer carved with a wandering rune, and the pommel is crowned with a shard that never quite melts, a keepsake from some shaman’s rite atop Shiverpeak winds. When you tilt the dirk to catch the light, you glimpse a faint glow that travels along the blade in a sentient, almost breathy motion, like a small frost-spirit traveling a line between memory and metal. Its name is whispered in the mouths of caravan guards and skalds alike, a relic that survived the old mountain ways and found its way into the hands of modern wanderers who chase colder truths. In lore, the dirk is said to have been forged at the edge of winter itself, in a ritual where pain and pride were braided into steel. The shaman’s breath cooled the temper, and the Agony sigil bound the tremor of old battles to every strike. Some say the weapon remembers those who wielded it first—hunters who learned to read frost-rimed footprints, miners who learned to listen for the mountain’s sigh, and fighters who learned that a true cut can be a confession. The narrative threads weave into the present, where it’s less a mere tool and more a witness: a blade that carries a quiet insistence that healing comes at the edge of danger, and that danger can teach a strange, glacial patience. In practical terms, the dirk loves the shadows and the decisive moment. It’s favored by those who balance speed with precision, by hands that want a weapon to both threaten and to tell a story with every swing. You feel the bite of its frost when you strike, a small shock that travels up the forearm and into your rhythm, nudging you to stay close, to press the advantage before the wind shifts. Its use isn’t merely to wound; it’s to tighten the thread between attacker and retreating breath, to force an opportunity that would otherwise slip away. The battlefield becomes a page, and your blade a pen that leaves a trace not just of force but of memory. Market gossip threads through the lanes of the market town like a cold draft, and the dirk’s value shifts with the wind of demand. In the bustle near Saddlebag Exchange, traders murmur about its rarity, its rune-laden grip, and the myth that clings to it as surely as the frost clings to the blade. A buyer might pocket it for its aura as much as its edge, while a collector might haggle over the sigils that glow faintly in the dark. One coin-teller’s ledger links the price to both its practical bite and the stories it carries, a balance that makes it a coveted prize in a world where every piece of gear is a thread in a larger, living tapestry.