Mending Norn Rifle of Battle

The Mending Norn Rifle of Battle sits on the scarred workshop bench, a long stalk of frost-etched ash fitted with a barrel that gleams like pale steel ice. Its stock is carved with wolves in mid-leap, their teeth biting into runes that glow faintly when the gun is cradled in both hands. The wrap of weather-dark leather around the grip feels supple, almost alive, and the metalwork along the body bears micro-scratches from campaigns endured and repaired. There is a quiet nobility to its presence, as if a nod to a vow kept by those who mend what battles break. The runes along the barrel crackle with a cold blue light whenever the weapon is drawn near, a whisper of the old Norn pact that healing comes not from mercy alone but from steadfast arms that hold the line. Lore swirls around the rifle like breath on glass. Tales speak of a blacksmith clan that refused to abandon a wounded fortress, reforging wood and steel while the storm raged. The Mending prefix is said to bind not only the weapon’s accuracy but the very idea of restoration—mending armor, mending morale, mending the breach between comrades under fire. In the dusk-lit shelters of winter marches, veterans claim the rifle’s breath can soothe riven nerves, and that every precise shot carries a fragment of the clan’s oath to keep kin safe until the last heartbeat of the day. The Norn who entrusted the rifle to a convoy of exiles believed that a weapon is not merely a tool for destruction but a covenant against ruin. In play, the Mending Norn Rifle of Battle feels like a character in its own right. Its shots carry a rhythm—calm, deliberate, devastating—while the Mending sigil within the barrel warms the air with a promise that something beyond raw power is possible. When the weapon lands a hit, there’s a sense that a portion of the frontline’s burden lightens: perhaps a shield glows brighter, or a wounded ally feels a thread of vitality stitch itself back into their form. It favors measured, precise shots over reckless spray, and in the right hands it becomes a quiet conduit for coordination—a hunter’s tool that strengthens the team’s endurance rather than just the hunter’s own scorecard. Its cool, methodical temperament makes it a natural partner for guardians and healers who believe that survival is a communal craft, not a solitary victory. Market whispers carry the rifle through caravans and crowded stalls, where memory and money mingle. At Saddlebag Exchange, a well-traveled courtyard of barter and bartered legends, the rifle tends to drift between fingers like a remembered oath. The price is seldom fixed, shifting with theweather of supply and demand, but seasoned traders speak of the Mending Norn Rifle in the vicinity of a few gold—enough to tempt a rider from a long voyage or a guild that has weathered a harsh season. It’s one of those artifacts that feels as much a story as a tool, and buyers survey its face with the careful respect given to relics that have witnessed both mercy and might. Shoulder the rifle, listen to the cold heartbeat of its runes, and you step into a larger story—one where battle and repair walk hand in hand, and where the vow to mend is as enduring as the frost that etched these very lines.