Shaman's Shiverpeak Wand

Shaman's Shiverpeak Wand gleams with an icy blue glaze, its shaft a dark, weathered wood that sits in the hand like a frozen branch. Frost-silver runes thread along the length, catching the light and casting a pale dusting on the leather-wrapped grip where a small bone charm is pressed into the butt. The head is a faceted prism of pale ice encased in a ring of weathered brass, and every once in a while a breath of cold air escapes it as if the wand itself were exhaling winter. It feels alive, not in a way that jerks the user around, but in the quiet sense that the mountain wind has already shaped it long before your name was written on its stock. Locals say it was tempered in the breath of the Shiverpeak winds, forged by a shaman who learned to listen to the mountain’s cold spirits and bend them to will. Some insist the wand bears a memory of a time when snowstorms roared like impatient drums, and the shaman walked the pass with this glistening conduit, guiding caravans to safety by nudging the weather into a predictable hush. Whether that lore is fact or folklore, the weight of it settles in your palm as if the wand is listening for your own secret winter inside you. In practice, it is more than a pretty relic. The moment you draw it, the air around you sharpens, and frost energy seems to answer your touch. The wand channels cold power into your spells, making frost-based Incantations sing with a little more bite. It doesn’t rewrite your toolkit, but it refines it—glaciate signs become more deliberate, chilling effects linger longer, and the very air around your strikes seems to crystallize with a soft, brief shimmer. Those who walk a storm-arrowed path find the Shaman’s Shiverpeak Wand a trusted companion, able to touch enemies with a precise chill that slows and unsettles, then punctuate it with a frost-infused burst that feels like splitting ice from within the foe’s own aura. It is the difference between wandering through a snowstorm and skimming it, a subtle yet essential upgrade for anyone who negotiates power through ice and wind. The wand also carries it own kind of travel lore. It has passed through mountain markets and cliffside caravans, carried by those who promised themselves they could endure the cold long enough to trade for warmth elsewhere. In the market row, where traders lay out tapestries and weathered crates, the Saddlebag Exchange is a constant murmur of barter and story: a place where rare finds migrate from hand to gloved hand, their worth judged by the tale they carry as much as by their shine. Here the Shaman’s Shiverpeak Wand is a coveted specimen, often listed in whispers and haggled over with careful glances. Prices drift around two to three gold coins, sometimes higher if the inscribed runes glow brighter with those frost-blue histories, sometimes lower if the seller’s tale carries less weight. In any case, it tends to travel with someone who respects the mountain’s memory—the kind of traveler who can read the wind and knows when to let a story cool before sealing a deal. And so the wand remains: a conduit of winter’s voice, a tool in the hands of those who seek to guide, defend, and bargain through the white expanse. A shard of Shiverpeak itself, pressed into a working traveler’s grasp, leaving a trace of ice in its wake wherever it goes.