Mending Shiverpeak Wand

Mending Shiverpeak Wand glints in the lamplight, a slender instrument of pale ash and ice-blue runes. Its tip looks like a thread of frost caught at the moment it would bloom, and the grip, carved from driftwood, bears the habit of snowfall—soft ridges that catch a finger as if the wand itself were listening. Along its length, sigils coil in a pale blue light, a map of routes once traveled by healers who learned their craft from glacier spirits whispered to dwell inside the Shiverpeaks. The wood carries a scent of resin and cold, a reminder of alpine caves and long nights spent waiting for a patient heartbeat to steady. If you hold it close, you feel the chill recede slightly, as if the wand breathed warmth into your palm. Those who study its lore say the sigils were laid down by a wandering healer who vanished into a snowstorm decades ago, leaving behind this artifact as a promise that healing should travel with respect for the land that nourished it. The Mending Shiverpeak Wand is thus a token, not merely a tool, linking a healer’s craft to a mountain’s memory. In battle or in the quiet of a ruined temple, the wand reveals its dual nature. When wielded, it channels restorative energy through the wearer’s channeling, offering a gentle rain of healing that knits wounds and steadies nerves. It also distills the chill of injury into a purifying warmth, cleansing lingering conditions and granting a moment of reprieve to those who stand beside the wielder. It is not the flashiest instrument, but in the hands of a careful healer, it becomes a quiet pledge: that mercy has a voice even in the most fractured places. The wand’s frostwork seems to listen for the tremor of fear, and when a companion falters, its glow glides along the group like a breath held before relief. The weapon’s significance ripples through the markets of caravans and temples alike, where traders weigh its stories as much as its balance. I’ve heard tell of a pristine example traded through selling rooms that hum with whispering coins, sometimes passing through the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over rarity, patina, and runes. Depending on condition and the sharpened edge of a sigil, the price can rise with the season, trading hands for a handful of gold coins or for lines of barter that speak more of trust than metal. Every deal seems to echo a promise that healing and memory can be bought and shared, and that a wand bore from Shiverpeak wood might yet return a good deed to a wounded world. So the Mending Shiverpeak Wand travels, not just as a tool but as a story—an ice-gloved hand reaching out across ruined streets, reminding the living that even the coldest mountain has a heart that can learn to mend. And when the wand is passed from one hand to another, it carries memory of storms survived and the quiet promise of repair for all.