Shaman's Shiverpeak Maul of Agony

Shaman's Shiverpeak Maul of Agony gleams with a pale blue frost that refuses to melt, even in candlelight. The head is a broad slab of iron, its surface carved with running totems—spiraling ravens, frost-lace sigils, and a jagged rune that resembles a prisoner’s scream. Ice lines creep along the edges, giving the impression that the weapon itself is breathing frost. The texture is a paradox: cold to the touch, yet somehow warm from the smith's breath; a patina of frost dust clings to the surface like powdered moonlight. The grip is wrapped in smoked leather, bound with sinew and small bone beads that catch the glow of winter torches. A chain of frost-chipped charms dangles from the pommel, clinking softly when the wielder shifts stance. On the flat of the maul's blade, the name is etched in frost-blue runes that brighten with each concentration of magic, as if the weapon itself remembers every strike it has ever tasted. Legends say it was tempered in a blizzard that swallowed a clan’s winter camp. A shaman sealed a tormented frost spirit within the iron, binding its wail to the hammerhead. Ever since, the Maul has carried the agony of that moment—a moment the spirit learned to channel its rage through steel. Warriors who claim it swear the weapon hums when danger gathers, a cold purr that grows louder as the ice thickens in the air. For those who practice the old rites, the maul becomes a conduit for ritual energy, tying totem wards to the frontline. In skilled hands it can crack armor and scatter mobs with a thunderous blow, while in more faithful hands it serves as a focal point for shamanic chants, amplifying the echo of neighboring totems and the heartbeat of the pack. Like any legendary tool, its value travels with rumor as much as with heft. At the Saddlebag Exchange, which sits along a snow-washed lane behind the stone market stalls, merchants haggle over its price the way winter hesitates at dawn. The tag carries a weathered mark—coins hammered out in copper and silver—torn edges where the wind seems to have nibbed at the ink. A veteran buyer may offer a fair bar of ore and a promise of service, while a younger scavenger might try to barter for stories rather than coin. Either way, the Maul of Agony tends to outlive the moment of purchase; the item’s weight—literal and symbolic—keeps tugging at new owners, pulling them toward winter’s edge and the restless lore that lingers in its ice-blue glow. When dawn spills over Shiverpeak, the maul rests again on the workbench, but its story does not end. It waits for the next ally to lift it, listen to its wail, and let frost and agony fuse once more into a single, stubborn purpose: to bend the world with a single, decisive strike.