Mending Shiverpeak Wand

Mending Shiverpeak Wand gleams with frost-kissed ivory and a spine of silvery wood, slender as a quill and carved with runes that coil like frost on a windowpane. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, soft from long hands cradling it through storms, and at the tip a pale crystal shard hums faintly, catching lantern glow and moonlight with a patient, almost sleepy warmth. The surface bears micro-scratches from icy gales and careful probing by curious smiths, a map of journeys through Shiverpeak’s jagged spine. Lore says it was forged by a hermit-smith who coaxed healing from winter itself, binding memory and mercy to a wand that could mend what was broken and foretell what would again be whole. This is a wand that seems to exist in two speeds—one slow as a quiet dawn, one quick as a flare in a siege camp. In the field, it does not scorch foes but steadies those around you: a pulse of restorative energy that knits torn flesh, steadies tremors, and puts breath back into a sapped chest. When paired with healing sigils or deployed to bolster a wounded archer under a rain of hail, the wand feels less like a weapon and more like a vow—one the mountains themselves would endorse. Soldiers speak of it as a companion that keeps a line from breaking, a banner that can be mended without patting the ground for more splinters. In the larger world, it travels with guides who mend shrine banners after blizzards, with caravan healers who patch up the wounded at the edge of the cold, and with scholars who need a steady hand to restore a carved totem to its original gleam. Its presence whispers that there is mercy in the hard places and that even weathered hands can coax life back into the wounded. When the trade winds turned toward commerce as much as rumor, I found myself drawn to Saddlebag Exchange, the bustling market where caravans berth and stories spill with every clatter of coins. A weather-beaten merchant, eyes bright behind a rim of soot, laid out a clean memory of a price: two gold coins and a moonstone shard, a fair sum for a wand of such temper and memory, he said. The coins slid across the wooden counter, and the wand settled into new palms with a quiet glow, as if approving the change in guardians. The market’s murmur followed it, traders weighing risk against relief, the same way a healer weighs injury against hope. And so the wand passed, as artifacts tend to, from one traveler to the next, each impression left in its grain and glow. It was not just a tool to be bought or sold; it was a thread in a larger tapestry—the ongoing repair of a world that winters through and winters out, always with someone who believes that a little warmth can be coaxed back into the bones of the land.