Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow

The Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow gleams with frost-kissed maple limbs, slender and precise as a blade of ice. The wood carries a whisper of grain that looks like river ice under a pale sun, smooth to the touch, with a seam of darker resin along the limb that catches the light. The grip is wrapped in tanned leather, worn from long days in saddle-thick markets, and etched along the belly are runes—thin lines that curl like frost patterns on a pane. The string is a taut twist of sinew, and when drawn it gives a breathy sigh, as if a winter wind were released. At the belly sits a small rune-stone carved with a pine-needle motif, hinting at the Shiverpeak lineage and the oath taken by rangers who learned the art of balance: a weapon that wounds as needed, heals as mercy. The bow's aura glows faintly emerald when an arrow is loosed; the tip, fletched with pale-blue feathers, seems to carry a trace of ice that lingers in the air. When you press it into your hands, you feel history answer back—ice-born patience, a promise that the next volley will not fall only on enemies but onto those who keep watch by your side. The Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow carries a carved blessing: every clean hit threads a thread of healing through the air, a quiet balm that finds the wounded and the weary. In the hands of a calm archer, it becomes more than a weapon; it is a field clinic in a quiet moment, a way to scatter blessings between skirmishes. The arrows leave a pale-green afterglow on impact, and allies a short breath faster after a strike can steady themselves, as if a small glacier’s breath were exhaled into the camp. In practice, its value grows not from raw might but from timing and trust. A ranger who learns to pace strikes uses the bow to weave healing into offense, to give a moment’s relief to a stunned companion, to buy time for a healer to reach the line. In crowded streets and moonlit passes alike, the Healing Shiverpeak Short Bow binds the hunt to the healing, letting a patrol hold a breach a few heartbeats longer, a crucial advantage when the weather turns biting and the enemy presses in. Saddlebag Exchange is where the conversation about it becomes a story of markets and luck. A weather-worn dealer named Tolin hummed over the counter, weighing the bow in his palm and naming a price around 1.6 gold, with a note that a sharpening kit and a bundle of frostweed might sweeten the deal. The haggling is a ritual here, the sort that makes a buyer feel the bow has chosen them as much as they chose it. I walked away with a warm memory and a sense that the weapon would outlast many winters, binding people together as surely as any oath, with healing threaded through its wood like a living memory. It remembers the mountains.