Mending Shiverpeak Bow of Serpent Slaying

Mending Shiverpeak Bow of Serpent Slaying glints with frost-blue ash and wind-kissed maple, the stave etched with sinuous serpents that seem to slither in the light. The grip is wrapped in soft, worn leather that smells faintly of pine resin and old snow, and the string hums at the touch, as if the bow remembers every shot ever drawn. The finish catches the dusk and frost, turning colors like a glacier in a sunset, and at the tips you can see a faint blue spark that suggests bound magic. Lore says it was forged on a wind-frozen spur of the Shiverpeak, blessed by hunters who walked with serpents in the snow and believed the bow could mend what war had shorn from a traveler’s body. In combat, the bow glows faintly when it lands a shot, weaving a veil of rejuvenation over nearby allies or the wielder. A strike from its ash-wood limbs carries a quiet mercy, so that fatigue loosens its grip a fraction of a breath sooner. That effect makes it a favorite for small bands guarding passes through serpent-haunted ranges, where a single shot can steady a frightened apprentice or patch a cut before infection takes hold. On a night when frost hung in lantern-light, I watched it save a wounded scout who would have slipped into a crevasse with a single breath wasted on pain. An arrow found a coil of venom and the glow spread out in a ring, mending skin and stamina as our march pressed on. The enemy faltered, longer shots turned to decisive close-quarters, and the bow felt less like a tool and more like a quiet companion whispering: stay with me. Markets in the caravan's wake have their own weather. At Saddlebag Exchange, a shaded canopy over a whetstone of a market, I watched the price drift with the mood of last night's storm. Today it would fetch a fair lump of gold, tomorrow a string of jade-tipped arrows, and in between the seller and the buyer spoke softly about needs, risks, and the serpent-haunted passes where such a bow might save a life. I paid a sum that felt both heavy and light—a pocketful of glimmering coins, enough to keep the caravan fed for a week, yet small compared with the value imagined by a hunter who could turn the tide of a siege with a single shot. The seller drew the bow to the light, tracing the sigils as if reciting an oath, and sent me away with a promise to return if the runes ever dimmed. Now it travels with me, not as a trophy but as a vow: to mend what is broken, to fight with mercy, to guide others through cold dawns. Sometimes, when night is too long and the road too cold, its pale light guides us to keep faith in next sunrise. We sing its name by the camp, a ritual binding us to mountains and to the Serpent Slayers who came before, forever.