Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow

Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow rests in the palm like a glinting shard of icewood, its grip wrapped in weathered leather that smells faintly of pine sap and rain. The limbs are lacquered in pale blue, etched with frost-fire runes that pulse softly when the air is thin. The bowstring hums with a note of wind, and the nock holds a tiny inlay of bone and crystal, relic of an ancient healer’s circle. The name is carved along the grip in a ribbon of silver, a promise and a warning: to wield healing power is to shoulder responsibility as surely as a quiver full of arrows. Legends say it was tempered on Shiverpeak ice, blessed by a healer who walked the ridge with a caravan of wary travelers. Those who bear it swear the weapon carries more than wood and sinew; it carries memory—the frost-bitten patience of a refuge under cliff walls, the quiet courage of a scout who learned to listen for the heartbeats of the wounded. When drawn, the bow seems to breathe, and even the softest release sends a glow along the shaft that many have learned to read before the arrow leaves the string. In gameplay, the Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow becomes a thread in the larger tapestry of a frontline tale. An aimed shot can drip healing energy into an ally or spark a ripple that closes a gash in seconds. It rewards careful timing: a warrior who steps into frost and then out again might quarter the risk by stitching life to the party with each hit. Lightweight enough for skirmishers to weave through cover, it still carries the weight of purpose, a companion that steadies a hesitant group and steadies the aim of the hunter who would not abandon a fallen friend. Traveling with a caravan through frost-bitten passes, the bow often sits beside a ledger of routes and rumors. It is a quiet emblem of trust among healers and hunters alike, a reminder that every drawn breath has a duty to sustain others even when the next fight is looming. In whispers, people speak of how the weapon’s perilous beauty kept a party together during a sudden blizzard, how a single, well-timed shot drew life back into a clutch of exhausted souls. In lively markets, you might catch a glimpse of its price at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over seam and scale, measured in coin and courage. A well-worn example fetches roughly three silver and twenty-five copper, a sum that feels right for something that can mend a broken moment as deftly as a hunter aims true. The bow remains a traveler’s memory, a legend that keeps finding new mouths to tell its tale, and new hands to keep it in motion, long after the snow has melted and the road once again opens to the sun. Its tone lingers in campfire conversations, where healers, scouts, and smiths trade tips, patterns, and pieces of parchment that map its growing legend.