Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon

Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon gleams with frost-lit metal, its barrel etched with running ice-spirals that wind from muzzle to grip. The iron surface bears a patina of breath and age, tempered to a pale blue sheen, while the grip is wrapped in worn hide trimmed with bone-white thread. A shard of clear quartz sits in the pommel, catching lamplight and throwing little meteors of spark on the table when you turn it. The piece carries a whisper of the Shiverpeak winds; lore says it was forged at the edge of a dawn storm, blessed by a shaman who bound an ice-spirit into the steel, so every shot carries a touch of winter. In hand it sits balanced, not top-heavy, the hammer crack crisp, the trigger responsive enough to reward patient aim. In battle its frost-charged rounds do more than pierce armor: they sap speed, slow movements, and leave a pale glitter in the air that makes pursuit feel like wading through a frozen bog. Those who roam the mountain passes or strike from the sidelines learn its real charm: you pin a target, delay a charging foe, then switch to a secondary threat before the moment passes. Beyond the immediate clash, the gun is a thread in a larger narrative about the Shiverpeak tribes and frost shamans who once kept watch over the passes. Some tales say the gun's touch can glimpse a rival's intentions through frost fog, while others insist it's simply a symbol of stubborn endurance. Prices do not sit still; market talk around a rain-slashed stall in the Saddlebag Exchange moves with the wind. The ledger on the counter lists Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon among the more coveted frost pieces, its price creeping upward as whispers spread and collectors rise to the challenge. A seasoned vendor will tell you that, at Saddlebag Exchange, you can find the right balance between gold and barter, perhaps swapping a holster of frost-bitten runes or a carved totem to seal the deal. On quiet nights in the moonlit markets, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon rests among leather and ledger, waiting for someone to tell its next chapter. A buyer may speak of it as a memory of a lost frost expedition, a captain who once used winter to barter a ceasefire, or a child who pressed a gloved finger to the quartz and whispered a wish. The gun's legend grows not from metal alone but from the choices it invites: shoot, pause, or bargain, and let the frost decide the terms of the engagement. Thus the weapon keeps writing itself forward.