Shaman's Shiverpeak Bow

Shaman's Shiverpeak Bow rests in the palm of a hunter's hand, its limbs of pale ash curling like frost-bitten branches. The grain runs deep and pale, and every angle seems etched with a delicate, ice-blue sheen. The grip is wrapped in weathered blue leather, stitched with ivory thread, and at the throat a bone totem hangs in a shallow notch, a whisper of ritual kept high on the Shiverpeak ridges. Along the limbs run sigils—spiraling runes of wind and frost—that glow faintly when the bow is drawn, as if the old spirits lean closer to watch. The string, a silvered sinew, hums with restrained power, and the nock bears a small crest of frost-wrought iron. In the myths, it is said the bow was tempered in the breath of winter winds, gifted to a wandering shaman who learned to listen to the snow and the storm. It is a weapon that carries a story as heavy as its draw weight. When the weapon sings, the air itself seems to hinge on a breath of cold. Arrows fletched with feather and ice-chips slice through air with a quiet, clinical precision. In combat, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Bow favors patient, deliberate shots that chill their targets—armor dulled by frost, movement slowed by ice, and critical strikes rewarded with a pale ribbon of frost that lingers on the skin like a bruise from the north wind. It is a bow for skirmishes that become stories, for salvage operations across snow-blown passes, for the hunter who tracks a wounded lie of a realm where wind and glacier meet. The arrows bite not just for damage, but to narrate a scene—one of resilience, of the old mountains teaching a new traveler to aim true. In the world’s long arc, such a bow is less a tool than a companion. You carry it between ruined watchtowers and ice-fed rivers, and the frost sigils in its grain become faintly audible as you step into a new zone, as if it is reading the weather along with you. The lore threads through campfires and market chatter—how the bow’s maker whispered to the snow spirits and earned their consent to bind winter’s edge to a hunter’s arm. The trail of that story winds through traders and wanderers, and here it passes through Saddlebag Exchange, that weathered stall where rumors and rarities mix. It is there, under the awning of a salt-stained cart, that a shimmer of frost-shell price dances on the tag and a buyer discovers, perhaps too late, that a Shaman’s bow is never simply bought. It’s bargained, weighed, and earned—a token of endurance, a promise that the next blizzard you face will meet you with a comrade’s cold smile and a long, true aim. And so the Shaman's Shiverpeak Bow remains, carved by myth and tempered by wind, ready to guide the next hunter through a winter-streaked dawn toward whatever lies beyond the snowy ridge. In quiet camps, it keeps watch with you, a frost-lit promise for the road.