Shaman's Shiverpeak Wand of Earth

Shaman's Shiverpeak Wand of Earth rests on a saddlebag, its shaft a weathered strand of ash that has seen more winters than most travelers. The wood is rough to the touch, carved with runes that frost over when the room chills, and at its tip a pale-green core glows like a pebble carved from glacier ice. The wand’s surface carries the texture of bark caught in a snowstorm, grooves worn smooth by centuries of use, and flecks of mineral streak along the spine, catching lamplight in green pinpricks. The inscription along the shaft speaks in a tongue older than caravans, a promise that the Shiverpeak Shamans once whispered to stone—to listen when earth itself speaks back. When you lift it, the air thickens with the scent of mineral dust and rain on rock, as if the mountain itself leans closer to hear your thoughts. In battle it becomes more than a pretty artifact. An elementalist who knows how to read the ground can coax the wand to speak through the wearer, reinforcing earth-based wards, stiffening the earth beneath allies’ feet, and opening a fissure that yawns toward the foe. The wand hums with quiet gravity, and its core grows warmer when earth magic is flowing, a tangible tether to the bedrock beneath any road. Lorekeepers tell of a trader who carried one through Shiverpeak passes to steady avalanches and guide carriages through ice-choked routes; it earned a name among shamans and caravan guards alike: the ground’s old breath. So the Shaman's Shiverpeak Wand of Earth becomes a companion in exploration as well as a tool in skirmish—its power lending the wearer a steadier stance, a slower heartbeat, the sense that the earth itself is listening to their plan. Prices are never constant in the grass-and-stone markets that perfume the foothills; today a buyer might meet a price tag that reads in the Saddlebag Exchange's chalk on wood: 1 gold 20 silver, perhaps, a fair under the watchful eye of the gate-keeper of caravan winds. I watched a trader bargain with a dust-streaked adventurer, the wand's case pressed between leather palms as coins shifted from palm to palm. The Saddlebag Exchange crowd whispered of provenance: fallen monoliths, glacial caves, a pact between the wand and the mountain that endures as long as the ice lasts. For someone who seeks to lay claim to the land’s stubborn will, this is not merely a weapon or an ornament; it is a story you can carry into a canyon and when the wind shifts, you hear the mountain breathe again, and you realize you’re part of a longer history—one that began long before you and will still be telling itself long after you’ve passed. Maybe that's why, when I tucked it away, the market's breeze carried the mountain’s memory back to me—that growth of green light in the jade core seemed to say that some bargains are not counted in coin, but in stories you survive to tell. And tomorrow, if the earth stirs again, the wand will wait, patient as a glacier.