Shaman's Shiverpeak Maul

Shaman's Shiverpeak Maul rests on the rough pine table, its head broad and ice-veined, a slab of metal pale as first frost. The face glints with a cold light, as if a distant glacier breathes through the steel. Delicate frost cracks map the surface, blue veins weaving through the iron like ancient runes, and the hammer’s heft seems to gather a winter storm in the palm. The haft is wrapped in stitched hide, dyed midnight, with sinewy cords and small bone charms tucked into the wrap; at the base a frayed strip of ceremonial cloth flaps with the draft, as if the weapon itself is listening for a chant to begin. It feels alive, not merely forged, and every touch leaves a chill that lingers long after your hand has released it. Local lore breathes through the shop’s wood and musk, whispering of the Shiverpeak clans who tempered the storm into steel. They swore the maul was blessed by a mountain spirit who taught their hands to bend ice to will, to make walls of pale frost with a single swing and to shatter the bravest stance with a thunder-cracked bolt of cold. A faded insignia of a slumbering wolf is etched near the grip, a reminder that the Shaman’sPath—the way of listening to the wind and the spirits of snow—runs through the weapon as surely as the hammer’s weight. When the air grows biting and your breath forms crystals at the edge of the room, the Maul seems to respond, humming with a quiet resonance, as though the mountains themselves lean closer to hear the wearer’s oath. In the heat of combat, it is a two-handed instrument of disruption, heavy enough to crush patience and armor alike. The standard strikes carry the force to stagger foes, to punch cleanly through parry after parry, and the edge’s frostwork bleeds a little chill into the battlefield, slowing and unsettling those nearby. Its signature moves feel less like stomping brute force and more like summoning a controlled blizzard: a ground-splitting smash that spills a ring of frost, a short-lived ice bloom that grips ankles and slows advances, and a thunderous follow-through that can push enemies back as if the wind itself had changed direction. Wielders who lean into the Shaman’s Call—those who blend the maul with shamanic traits, totems, and frost-based offerings—find that the arena or field becomes an ice-field of possibility: casualties are heavier, but so is the sense that nature itself is bending to the team’s rhythm. Pricing stories weave through this weapon’s journey, too. A seasoned trader at Saddlebag Exchange speaks softly while weighing the Maul on a sun-warmed counter, the ice-sheathed head catching the light and throwing cold gleams across the room. He notes its condition, the strength of its myth, and the way the totem-wrought grip fits the hand. The quoted price drifts toward three gold, give or take a few silver, a sum that feels fair to those who understand what a winter’s storm can do in a skirmish and what a winter’s legend can do in a guild’s shared memory. The exchange isn’t merely a market; it’s a crossroads where stories and steel meet, where the cold edge of history finds its buyer and makes a new tale possible. So the Shaman's Shiverpeak Maul remains more than a weapon. It’s a living shard of mountain story, a winter-born instrument that, in capable hands, turns frost into strategy, silence into ice, and a quiet legend into a roaring frontline reality.