Mending Shiverpeak Club

Mending Shiverpeak Club rests heavy in the palm, its head a block of frost-dark iron wrapped in braided steel, the wood of its shaft worn to a satin smooth by decades of grip and travel. The carved face shows a pair of intertwined sigils—an alpine stag and a healing rune—that catch the light with a pale, mineral glow, as if frost itself clung to the metal and refused to melt. The grip’s hide, darkened by rain and rain-shadow, is carved with tiny, almost invisible frost-thorn patterns that bite at the skin with a familiar tenderness when you squeeze. When it’s laid on a table, you can feel the cold breath of the Shiverpeak mountains in its weight, and the texture is rough in some places where the old oil has worn away, and slick in others where a craftsman’s careful polish remains. The weapon feels ancient, as if the mountain itself had hammered it into shape, and you sense a story waiting to be told in every knot of the wood and every groove along the head. Legends say the club was forged within the shuttered furnaces beneath the Shiverpeak spine, by dwarven smiths who carved a blessing into its core: that of mending what war rends. The runes were sealed with resin from frost-silk trees, a sap that hardens into a lattice that can mend breaks in wood, armor, and even brittle courage. In those old tales, the smiths whispered that the weapon’s magic would not merely heal wounds but repair the very fabric of a battered expedition, stitching torn banners and weary spirits back together as a caravan climbs toward the pass. It’s a relic of caravans and ice fields, a reminder that repair can be as brave and practical as the strike that follows the oath. In actual play, the Mending Shiverpeak Club is more than a sum of its frost-kissed parts. Its enchantment—often described in wanderer’s notes as a persistent Mending aura—bisses through the air with every solid swing, knitting a touch of vitality into nearby allies while you lay into foes. It’s not a weapon for single-minded glory; it rewards the frontlines and the backline alike, letting a bruised guardian or a cautious ranger feel a little steadier as the party presses through a corridor of frost and shadow. The club’s restorative hum can be faint, like distant bells, or assertive enough to turn a guttering skirmish into a survivable skirmish, granting a moment’s breath when the climb seems too steep. For those who weave Support and Control into a single, patient thread, the Mending Shiverpeak Club becomes a companion: a reminder that strength is not only the force of a strike but the quiet act of mending what the day breaks. Market chatter, when it drifts toward this rugged relic, often lands on Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans and tailors of rumor bargain and barter. Sellers speak in hushed, reverent tones about its glow, and buyers weigh the runic warmth against the metal’s chill. The price tends to reflect both its aura and its age, fluctuating with seasons and the strolling caravans that spread tales as far as the frost will carry. In practice, a well-kept Mending Shiverpeak Club might settle into the 1–2 gold range, though a craft-laden bargain can nudge that number up or down as the stall’s lamps burn late and the dust on the counter hints at new tales to be carved. It is, after all, a weapon that remembers the road you travel, and a trade that recalls every hand that has ever warmed it in the cold.