Shaman's Shiverpeak Arquebus of Bloodlust

Shaman's Shiverpeak Arquebus of Bloodlust glints with frost-blue lacquer along a stock carved from ash that the old masters swore learned to breathe. The metal barrel wears a patina like thawing ice, and frost-edged runes thread its length, catching the light as if a cold wind passed through the room. The stock bears a pattern of shallow cracks that mimic glacier crevasses, each one filled with a lacquered white that seems to glow faintly when the weapon is drawn under moonlight. Along the underside, a thread of bone inlays runs from cheek to forearm, etched with the silhouette of a shaman entwined with a jagged peak. In the hilt, a small sigil pulses with a quiet crimson heat, as if the gun itself remembers the moment a blood oath was sworn. Legends say the Shaman who forged it stood in a storm on the Shiverpeak ridge, calling for frost spirits to temper metal and will alike. They bound a portion of the mountain’s patience to the arquebus, so that every shot carries a shard of glacier breath, and every bullet bites with a patient, almost mournful hunger. When the trigger sings, the action slides with the hiss of ice on glass, and a billow of cold light spills from the muzzle like a breath from the sleeping wolf. The Bloodlust tie-in, whispered in campfires and tavern corners, is not just fearsome branding—it’s a story in steel. A lucky hit can kindle a short-lived surge of vitality in the wielder, as though the mountain itself is sharing its stubborn resilience for a heartbeat or two. In battle, its velocity is steady enough to split a target’s timing but savage enough to feel like a breaking of winter’s silence. Engineers prize it for its reliability; rangers murmur about how its frost rounds threaten armor with a brittle crack, then melt away, leaving foes chilled by the memory of what could have been. For those who chase stories as much as victories, the arquebus becomes a character in the field—a witness to sieges, a companion to nights spent nursing campfires, a reminder that some relics survive not just through force but through the weather of time itself. Prices drift through the market lanes like cold steam, and the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a ledger of when such artifacts walk from stall to stall. A brass-tongued trader might quote a price measured in gold with a careful smile, while a wily haggle may trade up a tale of the old Shaman’s pact in exchange for a glint of moonlight on the barrel. The charm is never merely the gun; it’s the weight of history that sits in a hunter’s hands, ready to be pressed into service or pressed into memory as dawn climbs the peaks and the first snow begins to melt. And so, in quiet valleys and crowded ports alike, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Arquebus of Bloodlust passes from hand to hand, a hinge between memory and the future, waiting for the next winter to test its oath.