Healing Shiverpeak Club of Agony

The Healing Shiverpeak Club of Agony rests in my gloved palm, its head a pitted disc of iron etched with frost-silver and a trace of frost-fire that twitches in the firelight. The shaft is carved from dark spruce, weather-split and smooth where the grip bears the wear of many camps. Along the haft runes thread through the wood—sigils of healing interlaced with jagged teeth of glacier shard—while near the butt a strip of cracked leather binds the grip tight. The club’s texture is rough, worn by years of roping, scraping, and the wind’s bite on winter ledges. In the glow of a campfire, the runes flicker pale emerald, a sign that the weapon is more than a tool; it is a conduit between pain and recovery, a relic of Shiverpeak smiths who believed mending the living meant enduring the mountain’s ache. In the old tales whispered among market stalls and guard posts, the Healing Shiverpeak Club of Agony is said to have been forged at the edge of a stormwall, when a healer-priestess bound a healer’s spirit to a weapon so her comrades could live as the blizzard swallowed routes and shouted orders into the snow. The Agony, as the elder scribes called it, is less cruelty than vow: every patient saved exacts a price from the wielder, a breath drawn from the cold itself. The lore winds through villages like winter frost, surfacing in tavern rumors and militia ledgers, then settling into bedside tales told to new recruits who dream of being the last mercy when the night goes dark. Its significance in play is steady as a heartbeat in a hall of mirrors. The club channels healing power into nearby allies with each swing, brushing life back into the wounded while the enemy staggers from the impact. It is not a weapon for the frantic, but a companion for the shield-bearer, the guardian who stands and lets the earth do the mending while he holds the line. The glow from its runes wanes and returns with a rhythm that matches the camp’s breath, a constant reminder that healing is a shared song, not a solo. When coins change hands, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with curiosity—the stallholders trading stories as much as prices. A good, used Healing Shiverpeak Club of Agony can fetch a fair sum, the kind that makes a buyer feel the mountain’s favor; a pristine specimen climbs higher, as rare as a thaw in the peak’s oldest frost. Prices drift with rumors: a few gold more for pristine condition and perfect enchantments, a few less when the tale behind the blade has grown heavy with time. And so the club travels road to road, caravan to camp, from healer to hunter, a shared instrument of mercy and memory. If you listen closely, the Agony never quite leaves your hands; it lingers in the ache you relieve and the courage you borrow to push back the next night at the rim of the world.