Mending Shiverpeak Bow

Mending Shiverpeak Bow gleams with frost-etched light, its ash-white stave carved from a single drift of yew and kissed along the limbs by blue ice that seems to breathe with every breath in the air. The grip is wrapped in well-worn saddlehide, stitched with silver thread that catches the light when you tilt the bow just so, and the riser bears a rune etched as if it were a drop of winter itself, pale and steady. The string—thin, pale as a crescent moon—draws back with a sigh, as though the bow is listening for a whisper of wind in the pines. When you lift it, the world narrows to the arc of its sightline, and the ice-slick glow along the limb hints at a story older than the footprints in the snow. There is a rumor bound to its lacquered surface, a tale the old woods whisper to those who listen closely. They say the bow was forged in a hollow somewhere near the Shiverpeak, by a ranger who treated every broken branch and snapped arrow as a wound of the land itself. The craftsman pressed a shard of glacier into the wood, not to imprison winter but to mend it—to mend travelers’ misfires, to mend the spear-pierced silence after a skirmish, to mend a line of defenders as the enemy presses in. From this respect for healing grew the bow’s name, a quiet pledge that violence would not forget mercy. Some claim the first owner spoke to the forest with every draw, and the forest answered back with a faint pulse of blue heat that stitched wounds in the air as arrows found their marks. In practice, the Mending Shiverpeak Bow feels like a partner in a longer story—the kind of companion who doesn’t merely deal damage but keeps time with the battle’s heartbeat. Those who have carried it into the thicker frays describe a strange, almost patient energy lingering in the air after a shot; it’s as if the bow nudges the fight toward gentler consequences. When a well-aimed arrow splits the air, stories say the weapon releases a shimmer that patches minor wounds of allies nearby, granting a fleeting ease to their fatigue and a quiet shield against the next push. It doesn’t erase every scar, but it festoons the skirmish with glints of resilience. For a ranger who guards a caravan or a battalion, that subtle mend can be the difference between holding the line and letting the moment slip away. The road to the next camp is long, and markets know it well. At Saddlebag Exchange, a sun-worn stall tucked between two weathered wagons, the bow’s price is quoted with the soft haggling of travelers who have learned to read the wind as well as a price tag. A gold piece or two—perhaps slightly more if the seller looks for a quick turn—are traded for its gleam, though a careful barter can swing the value for a worthy barter item or a tale of the road. The exchange is a living thing, a caravan of people and stories, and the Mending Shiverpeak Bow slides into the hands of someone who believes that every shot should carry a little weather back to the world—a bit of frost for healing, a touch of mercy in the frost. And as the sun sinks behind the mountains, the bow rests easy against its new bearer’s shoulder, ready for the next chapter in its quiet, enduring story.