Mending Shiverpeak Bow

Mending Shiverpeak Bow rests on the table like a pale shard of ice, its limbs a sinuous arc of frost-touched wood. The grip is wrapped in worn leather that smells faintly of spruce sap and rain, and the string hums with a quiet tension as if a winter wind were drawn taut across its length. Along the riser, rune-like runes glow faintly in pale blue, tracing the mountain's weathered lineage. The bow's surface bears a texture that hints at snowfall—microscopic frost flecks that settle into the grain, a sheen like liquid ice when the firelight catches it. Inset in the grip is a small carved emblem: a mountain crest threaded with silver that seems to mend itself when touched. Locals whisper of the craftsmen who bound Shiverpeak's mercy to a weapon, so every shot would carry a stitch for the wounded: not flashy magic, but patient, quiet mending. Beyond beauty, the bow shapes a larger tale in battle and journeys. When drawn, the air seems to soften, and arrows appear to borrow a fraction of the horizon's cold light. Veterans swear that the Mending Shiverpeak Bow carries healing in its wake—a faint thread of life that lingers on allies struck by its shafts, easing pain, little by little, as if the mountain itself were stitching torn hours back together. In open-field skirmishes or treks through ravaged camps, such a weapon shifts pacing: it invites a defender's mindset, guiding you to protect as much as you strike. That comfort comes with a history. The Shiverpeak range has always been a corridor between storm and shelter, and this bow was said to be carved by a hunter who led a caravan through whiteouts, saving lives when a blizzard swallowed the road. The rangers who kept those routes intact pressed a vow into its grain: to mend what the world rends with cold—to turn a missed shot into an opportunity to heal, a broken line into a reclaimed path. Markets swell with stories too. In the open market where travelers barter under canvas, Saddlebag Exchange is a chorus of chatter and clatter, a place where traders lay out scarves, bearings, and bright shells beside common lumber. A buyer may find a price tag that glints with risk, or hear a tale that changes the bill: a bow looted from a frost-scarred ruin, described as worth frost and faith. The seller will murmur that the Mending Shiverpeak Bow has traded hands a few times, snagged by a caravan heading north, its value tempered by patience and mercy. There, negotiation threads through memory—the kind of price that makes a buyer pause and weigh risk, perhaps sealing a deal with a story about the night wind stitched a village back together. Ultimately, the bow remains more artifact than tool, a bridge between craft and consequence. It is not merely a weapon but a reminder that some wounds mend because someone cared enough to listen to the ice and to the heart of the mountain, and to act.