Shaman's Shiverpeak Arquebus of the Geomancer

Shaman's Shiverpeak Arquebus of the Geomancer rests in the lamplight, its barrel a pale, breath-stealing blue, etched with frost-veined runes that hum when the candle guttering falters. The metal gleams like a frozen river, and the wood of the stock is dark and smooth, wrapped in sinew-thin strips of leather that creak softly as you shift it. Along the length the engravings spiral—tiny depictions of avalanches, stone faces yawning in cliff walls, and a single, central sigil that glows when cold air slips past the doorway. A fragment of crystal sits in the butt-cap, catching any flicker of light and shattering it into a prism of winter stars. It looks as though a mountain spirit carved it from a block of glacier and then whispered, in a tongue no smith can quite repeat, that it was meant to be aimed at the world’s oldest tremors. To hold it is to feel the old mountain’s patience in your hands. The weight sits just so, as if the earth itself conspired to cradle your aim. When fired, the arquebus releases a shot that travels with a hush, a needle of cold that seems to steal heat from the air. The impact carries shards of frost that cling to the target and whisper through armor, a slow, glacial seep rather than a flash. If the wind is right, the shot seems to coax the ground to remember itself—tiny fractures bloom in stone and soil, a tremor that lingers like a rumor. In the hands of a geomancer at the height of a canyon sun, the weapon becomes a storyteller: it narrates how rock yields to pressure, how ice yields to patience, how power can be measured not only in force, but in the speed with which the earth answers a summons. The Shaman’s Shiverpeak Arquebus is more than a weapon; it is a covenant between clan memory and battlefield necessity. In skirmishes along frost-waddled passes, it lets the Geomancer lead with restraint—first the quiet, then the decisive, then the dawn of a new terrain underfoot. It is prized by engineers and frontline travelers alike because its frost-borne rounds slow, puncture, and, in the right moment, peel away a foe’s footing, turning a narrow corridor into a locked gate where an ally’s strike can find its line. Its lore ties back to mountain shamans who translated weather and stone into protection for their camps, and modern bearers carry that same obligation: to respect the ground while guiding allies to safer routes through it. Pricing stories drift through taverns and trading posts, carried on the backs of rumors and careful bargaining. I heard tell of a Shaman’s Arquebus once slipping through the market at Saddlebag Exchange, where veterans and dreamers weigh the weight of history against the weight of coin. A dealer noted it had rested at around several gold pieces in the days when demand spiked, then cooled as new legends arrived in town. Whether you seek it for its story, its chill, or its chance to bend a fight toward the river of the mountain, it is not merely a tool but a chronicle you can heft before stepping into the next winter of battle.