Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Bloodlust

The Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Bloodlust sits on the table like a relic hauled from a glacier, its barrel frosted with specks of rime and a lacquer of deep crimson winding around the iron. The metal wears a weathered patina, pocked by years of frost and field use, yet the edge is keen as a winter wind. Carved in high relief along the grip are rune-scribed motifs—stepwise ice spirals that seem to hum faintly when you cradle the weapon, as if the cold itself were listening. A shell of bone-white inlays traces the handguard, and a copper coil along the frame glints whenever a spark of magic passes through it. The Shiverpeak name is etched near the breech, and the entire thing feels as if it carried a winter storm inside its cavity, a whisper of the mountains’ old, patient fury. Lore clings to it as if the weapon were half memory, half machine. According to the seasoned smiths who’ve handled it, the Shaman’s Shiverpeak Handcannon was tempered high in the Shiverpeak crags, where ice spirits were coaxed into oath-bound service by a lone shaman who traded breath for iron. They say the weapon’s heart is bound to a frost-woven stubbornness, the Bloodlust a hungry grandmother of a thing that feeds on adrenaline and ruin alike. In the field, soldiers and scouts alike told stories of the first blast—a sound that crackled like frost meeting flame and left a pale bloom of ice on the air. The lore insists that the cannon does not simply fire; it sings with a cold intensity, as if every shot were a thread pulled from winter’s own loom. In practice, the handcannon has a rhythm that makes it feel less like a tool and more like a companion in the long, perilous hours of patrol. It rewards precision and tempo: a clean shot to topple a shield, a follow-up burst to press a charge, and a lingering frost that slows the pursuing crowd just enough to tilt a skirmish in your team’s favor. The Bloodlust enchantment isn’t just a showy name; it channels a portion of the target’s life essence into the user’s momentum, giving a fleeting surge to adrenaline recovery and a subtle frost aura that drifts ahead of the user, chilling the air and bending foes’ nerves toward hesitation. It’s not about raw damage alone, but about the story you tell with each engagement—the quiet patient shooter who turns a narrow pass into a moment of decisive leverage. The market is never shy about telling such stories, either. I watched a rider haggle through a set of felled banners and wind-battered crates as the Saddlebag Exchange crowd gathered round, drawn by the weapon’s glacial glow. The price drifted like a snowdrift—one day a touch under a gold, another a touch above, hovering in that tight corridor where collectors, travelers, and scavengers each claim a piece of the legend. The vendor offered a note of caution about wear on the frost motifs and the coil’s temper, while a second buyer offered a reliquary and a handful of rare runes. It’s a dialogue that plays out across Tyria’s travel routes: who owns history, and what price will they name for the future? In the end, the handcannon isn’t merely steel and spell—it’s a map. Fold one corner and you’ll find the story of a mountain clan, a winter ritual, and a caravan that learned to read the ice again just because they carried this single weapon into the night.