Mending Shiverpeak Bow

Clasped in the pale light of dawn, the Mending Shiverpeak Bow gleams with a frost-blue grain that seems to breathe as you handle it. The bow's limbs are carved from ash and ironwood, weathered at the edges like bones of a glacier, with a subtle shimmer along the limb seams where resin met rune. Its sinewy grip is wrapped in tanned hide dyed the color of midnight snow, smoothed by years of patient hands that know every sting of wind and recoil. The string, braided from ghost-white sinew, hums softly when drawn, as if it keeps a secret oath to mend what the hand breaks. Along the riser, runes coil in pale silver, tracing stories of Shiverpeak passes, of errant winters guarding a caravan route, of a bow that learned to bend sorrow into struck arrows rather than into bitterness. When you tilt it to the light, the wood seems to breathe, gathering frost into minute sparkles that cling for a heartbeat before fading. The lore speaks of a ranger who wandered the high passes, patching wounded shoulders and broken loyalties with arrows that carried a quiet, almost healing intent. They say the bow’s magic does not heal flesh on its own, but it makes mending possible: crews in the snow would hoist banners, string shields together, rejoin a marching line because each arrow that flew from this bow carried a thread of patience, a reminder that even defeat can be repaired. In the workshop chats, some claim the Mending Shiverpeak Bow was tempered in storms that refused to end, blessed by a smith who listened to the whispering ice. Others insist its enchantment is the memory of the mountain itself, the stubborn will of stone turned to arrowhead. Either way, its value is not merely in the draw weight or the polished tip; it lies in what it invites: careful aim, the discipline to wait for the moment when a broken flank across a battlefield can be mended with a single well-timed shot. Players who prize it speak of it as a companion on long treks through snowbound ravines, a tool for guiding a skirmish as much as piercing a target. It is as comfortable in a hunter’s hands as it is in a hunter’s tale, a weapon that carries a rumor of repair and resilience. Market whispers travel along the caravans as surely as gusts through the pines. The price drifts with the weather, trading hands in shadowed stalls where Saddlebag Exchange keeps its ledger. The merchants speak softly about demand for gear that can outlast a cruel season, about buyers who want a weapon with a story as well as a edge. If you listen, you can hear the bow’s promise in the rustle of coin and the hum of wood, a vow that every shot could mend a little of what the world breaks, one frost-slick arrow at a time. So the bow travels on, in pockets and campfires, a quiet treaty with winter and hope.