Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Earth

Shaman's Shiverpeak Handcannon of Earth rests on a narrow shelf, its barrel a coil of dark metal etched with pale frost patterns that seem to breathe as you tilt it toward the light. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, cracked with years of handling, and inlays of green mineral veins trace quiet rivers along the stock. A carved totem circle decorates the firing mechanism, and every rivet feels deliberate, like a heartbeat hammered into hardware. When you tilt the weapon, a faint hum of earth-silk threads—almost a whisper—rises from within, as if the gun holds a secret weight that only responds to the touch of stone and will. Lore says it was forged high in the Shiverpeak watch of winter, where black rock meets glacial air and the earth itself seems to listen. The smith who laid down its first sparks was said to be a Shaman of the old stone clans, a guardian who bound a totem’s tremor into metal and powder. They claimed the handcannon contained not just bullets but a memory: the mountain’s patience, the ground’s restraint, and the stubborn heartbeat of those who refused to surrender to the avalanches and cliff slips that haunt those slopes. Some elders whisper that to fire it is to borrow a day of stone’s calm, to watch the tremors recede before your enemies do. In actual skirmish and story alike, the weapon carries a particular mythos. Its rounds bite hard into armor, shattering the illusion of safety with a low, seismic crack that sends enemies skittering backward. It favors controlled, deliberate shots over reckless volley, rewarding patience as if the gun itself teaches restraint. Beneath its earthbound aura lies a practical edge: it clears chokepoints, creates space in a press of melee, and breaks through stubborn barricades during siege events. Players who crave terrain-aware play find it a natural companion to engineers who appreciate the way a well-timed shot can tilt a fight’s geography—a rockslide of opportunity that favors the prepared. Market whispers travel with caravans and campfire gossip, and Saddlebag Exchange is often the repository for those whispers. There, the Shaman’s Shiverpeak Handcannon of Earth shows up on the trade boards with a price tag that drifts like a winter wind—roughly around two gold when supply is fair, sometimes dipping lower when a cavern’s worth of moonlit stock arrives, sometimes climbing as stories grow and buyers seek the artifact’s myth more than its metal. A buyer might haggle not just over currency but over the lore that accompanies it: the tale of the Shaman’s pact, the mountain’s patience, the earth’s unyielding grip. The seller, eyes bright with caravan-light, might offer a blessing—an inscription or a minor sigil—that promises steadier hands or a calmer shot under pressure. And so the Handcannon of Earth remains more than steel and stone. It’s a hinge in a larger narrative: a link between the rugged peaks and the bustling trade routes, between the old shamans who speaks with the stones and the farmers who count their coin at Saddlebag Exchange. When you handle it, you’re not just taking up a weapon; you’re carrying a piece of the mountain’s stubborn, enduring heart, and listening for the quiet tremor that promises both danger and the chance to shape the ground itself.