Mending Shiverpeak Wand of Serpent Slaying

Mending Shiverpeak Wand of Serpent Slaying rests on a velvet cloth, a slender arc of frost-dark ironwood that feels cool to the touch even when held indoors. Its length sits just shy of a forearm, and the surface is so smoothly sanded that it seems to glow faintly from beneath the grain. Along the shaft, pale jade runes coil in delicate spirals, carved with patient precision, a serpent’s scale rendered in micro-detail from the grip toward the head. A moonlit fang of crystal-touched ore crowns the tip, catching light and sighing with a soft, icy tinkle when the wand is moved. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, reinforced with a narrow band of silvered copper etched with a looping sigil—an inscription of Shiverpeak’s forgotten smiths. When you lift it, the wand settles into your palm with a balance that feels earned, as if it has waited through many winters for a rightful bearer. Lore has it that it was forged where the Shiverpeak winds cut hardest, in a workshop that faced down blizzards as if they were mere questions to be answered. Serpents of frost haunted those passes—creatures that mirrored the biting chill of the mountains and the corruption of venom in their veins. The masters bound the serpents’ venom into the wand’s core, a paradox in which harm could be repurposed to mend. Tales speak of a healer-guardian who faced a village laid low by plague and venom alike, who learned to coax the wand’s quiet power into a patient, steadfast mercy. In the retellings, the Serpent Slaying is not about triumph over beasts alone, but about restoring fragile bonds—between healer and patient, between caravan and ally, between a disputed treaty and its fragile peace. In the wilds and in crowded frontline camps, the wand moves with the healer’s finger, its inlays seeming to breathe light into the air. Its primary gift is to channel mending energy—a glow of frost-blue radiance that knits minor wounds and steadies a faltering ally. It does not erase scars overnight, but it makes the road ahead possible again, easing the sting of poison and the ache of fatigue, cleansing lingering maladies with a patient breath. The Serpent Slaying aspect tightens its grip on venom and curses, granting silence to creeping toxins and a momentary shield as if a vow was spoken aloud to a winter sky. In the right hands, the wand becomes a promise kept, a steady pulse that returns courage to a marching column or a lone scout pressed to the edge of a ravine. Markets are as much a theater of stories as they are of trade, and I watched the wand move from stall to stall as if it carried its own wind. At Saddlebag Exchange, a brisk clerk priced the artifact with careful arithmetic and a smile that remembered long caravans past. The gold and silver glints traded hands with quiet respect, a reminder that value here is earned through mileage and memory as much as through coin. The wand found a new bearer that afternoon, but left behind a handful of whispered legends—the kind that keep a weapon alive long after the last battle is finished and the frost has settled again over winter’s quiet gates.