Mending Shiverpeak Handcannon of Serpent Slaying

The Mending Shiverpeak Handcannon of Serpent Slaying gleams with frost-lacquered steel, its barrel curling like a frozen river, the mouth etched with pale runes that catch the moonlight and shed a cool, phosphorescent glow. The grip is wrapped in weathered elk-leather, nicked at the corners by years of weather and hard use, while the stock bears a shallow inlay of the Shiverpeak crest and a serpentine sigil that seems to wriggle just beneath the surface when you tilt it toward the dawn. Touch it and you feel a crisp chill that doesn’t bite so much as remind you of long nights and fir forests, of a smith’s breath fogging over metal and a vow spoken to old enemies: serpents slain will be mended. The name itself travels through taverns and trading posts, spoken as softly as prayer, a talisman for those who hunt in icy places where the air bites and the ground holds its own frost-welled secrets. In the field its silhouette looks almost ceremonial, until you draw it and feel the balance settle in your hand—the weight there is not just lead and steel, but stories waiting to be told. When you pull the trigger, shards of frost-laden lead spill forth, snapping with a crack that skews the air and leaves behind a thread of cold that seems to stitch wounds in the fabric of the moment. In serpents’ dens or on kite-line patrols along snow-swept passes, the weapon’s lore grows with each slain foe, and the weapon itself seems to hum with a patient mercy—the Mending sigil at its core gently easing the ache of those it protects, mending torn coats of mail, cracked armor, and even a hunter’s skirmish-wear between breaths. The gun’s true gift is not only its cold bite but its companionship with a larger story: a pact between smiths in the Shiverpeak for whom winters are a test, and a world that still needs to be reminded that a serpent’s threat is as much a test of will as a test of steel. Players have learned to time its shots for maximum effect against serpents and their kin, using the frost-charged projectiles to interrupt venomous pursuits and to buy space for retreat. I’ve watched caravans barter for it at Saddlebag Exchange, where a trader’s grin widens as a glistening scale slides across the counter—the price a fair glimmer of gold and a couple of serpent scales, enough to keep the stories going and the weapon in the hands of those who know the bite of winter first. It is not just a gun but a partner in a carved, weather-worn life, a thing that binds the old frost-worn lanes to a present where every serpent slain becomes a thread in a larger tapestry of mending and memory. Some nights, the weapon rests in a saddlebag, cooling beside a map, waiting for dawn when serpents rise and debts of frost are paid. The handcannon does not end its tale; it begins anew for all.