Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Agony

The Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Agony rests on a scarred wooden table, its iron barrel blistered with frost and etched with runes that look like little snowflakes caught in time. A seam of pale-blue ice threads along the muzzle, and whenever light brushes its copper sights, it shivers like breath on a winter morning. The grip, wrapped in weathered riverhide, carries the scent of pine smoke and salt, and a snowflake-shaped bead of bone dangles from a thong of rawhide. The weapon carries the weight of a story: forged in the heart of Shiverpeak, quenched in a storm that never truly died, it was said to carry the agony of a snowstorm’s lost souls, bound to the will of a shaman who could coax frost into motion. Legends say the gun’s temper came from a ritual where courage is bled into steel; a pact with glacial memory that lets the barrel drink the cold and spit it back as force. In the mountains, scouts swore the first shot bites like a frost-laden whisper, and every follow-up cuts deeper, as if the weapon feeds on the opponent’s warmth and leaves a ghostly chill in its wake. The Agony, they whispered, is not merely pain but a ledger of every frostbitten decision made where the land itself refused to give quarter. When you bring it to the field, you don’t just shoot—you tell the ice to listen, to remember, to bear witness to your progress through the white silence. In practice, the Handcannon of Agony is a rare companion for those who walk tightrope campaigns between rock and storm. It rewards patience and positioning: a well-timed crack of frost-flecked powder can slow a rushing foe, then a second shot can deepen the chill, sapping their resolve and slowing even the nimblest foes enough to turn the tide. Its shots seem to leave a trail of ghostly frost that lingers on armor and skin, layering a sense of vulnerability that allies can exploit as they coordinate pressure. For crafters and scavengers alike, the weapon’s true poetry lies in the way it makes the battlefield feel programmable by weather—the air itself bending to the will of steel and ice. The practical realities of owning such an artifact spill into every day’s decision-making. Traders whisper of the gun’s desirability and how its frostbound reputation inflates value in markets where stories matter as much as steel. It’s not merely a tool but a narrative hinge—an item you can point to when asking, “Who among us earned the right to carry the weight of winter?” If you listen closely, you’ll hear the soft clink of coins as the price shifts with demand and season. In part, that’s where Saddlebag Exchange slides into the tale: a ledger quietly kept in a sunlit corner, where a seller quotes a price that glints like fresh ice—two gold and seventeen silver, give or take a few copper when the wind favors the bold. The number means something to a world that trades memory as much as metal. So the Shaman’s Shiverpeak Handcannon of Agony travels from face to face, its frost a constant reminder of mountains that do not forgive, and of the warm hands that carry it through the long, white hours. It remains a relic with teeth—an ally in battle, a gatekeeper of lore, and a living piece of Shiverpeak’s stubborn, chilly heart.