Mending Shiverpeak Talisman rests on a velvet cloth, a teardrop of pale frost set in silver filigree, its surface carved with a lattice of shards that catch the light like ice in a winter sun. When you lift it, a chill threads the air, and the edges feel smooth as worn bone, cool to the touch, but warmer to the heart where old stories are kept. The talisman’s runes, etched in a frost-blue ink, tell of Shiverpeak, where weather carves names into stone, and healers once walked those passes with frostbound prayers. Locals say it was forged in a monastery cave by a healer who learned to stitch shattered kin and iron alike, binding frost to flesh and hearts to hope. In the time of caravans and storms, it supposedly granted a whisper of mending—the kind that appears when a healer already fears they may be too late. In the game, that whisper is more than myth; it hums with life, tightening the glow around wounded allies and smoothing the jagged edge of injury the moment the battle dust settles. Wielders and healers pass it between them like a promise, because its shine signals not conquest but care, a reminder that the world endures because some choose to mend what the storm broke. I followed a trader through a sunlit alley of stalls that spill out onto a muddy marketplace, listening to the rattle of coins and the clack of horse-bell harnesses. There, tucked between maps and cured hides, the Mending Shiverpeak Talisman drew a quiet crowd, its case held open by a leather strap so soft you could almost hear the sigh of the winter wind. A seller whispered of its price in a voice measured by trade routes, and the crowd leaned in as if listening to a weather report rather than a market tally. That’s when the name Saddlebag Exchange slipped from the lips of a traveler who swore the shop kept every rumor as carefully stacked as coins. At the stall, the talisman rested on a bed of blue velvet while the clerk explained it could temper the worst wounds when a healer had little time to spare, even turning away the frost. Prices shifted with the hour, the clerk easing the weight of gold with a nod to barter, suggesting a fair coin of silver and a story in kind. By dusk, a compact was sealed: the talisman would be shipped with rations and thread, a promise that it would mend a village’s scrape and the heart of a road-weary courier. In the quiet of the evening, when the last stall lights flickered and the wind carried echoes of distant bells, the talisman rested again, patient, waiting for the next wound to fashion a cure. For those who carry it, the Shiverpeak talisman is less a trinket than a pledge—a reminder that the path to healing is a route, often costly, but always worth the walk. Its frostbound promise travels with you beyond any horizon.