On the workbench, the Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow catches the eye with a pale, frost-tinged arc of ashwood, as if a shard of the mountain itself were bent into a weapon. Its limbs breathe a soft, almost crystalline grain that glints when light slides along the carved runes, like ice catching a snowfall. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather that smells of cedar smoke and old campfire stories, rough enough to calm a hand that trembles but warm enough to feel like a familiar handrail on a treacherous pass. Along the riser, delicate inlays of silvery filigree coil around inlaid frost-blue veins, tracing ancient lines that hint at a culture that believed objects could mend what war had arched out of shape. It is not merely wood and string; it feels, to those who cradle it, as if the bow remembers the faces of the mountaintop towns it has defended, the long lines of retreat, the quiet in the snow after a skirmish. The story etched into its surface speaks of Shiverpeak, a place of granite breath and sudden storms, where smiths learned to coax strength from cold and to listen for the quiet heartbeat of a weapon before it wakes an enemy. Some say the Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow was tempered by healers as much as by hammer and anvil, a partnership that binds a precise shot to a touch of restorative magic. When you nock an arrow and draw, the bow gives back a subtle warmth at the grip, as if the mountain itself leans forward to keep you upright. The lore threads through its wind and weight, turning every misfire into a memory of hard-won patience, every perfect release into a pledge to protect those who walk with you through frostbitten passes and crowded market streets alike. In play, the bow embodies a particular kind of promise. It asks for restraint and timing, rewards quick recovery after a missed beat, and favors disciplined shots over flamboyant flicks of the wrist. Ranging in the hands of a patient hunter, it becomes a conduit for steadiness in chaos: a shot that finds its mark not only with accuracy but with a sense that the hunter is carrying a small, quiet miracle for an ally in need. The Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow isn’t just about dealing damage; it’s about preserving the rhythm of a party, letting a healer reset the tempo, letting a frontline rider slip back into cover with a spared breath. Markets in the rear streets offer their own, more tactile kind of resonance. Among the stalls at Saddlebag Exchange, a trader’s call winds through the crowd, and the bow’s price is weighed not only in gold but in the stories that cling to its string. A seasoned buyer will remark on the bow’s scarcity, the patience it embodies, and the way its lore seems to accrue value with every shared tale of a pass cleared on a snow-swept dawn. The price, whispered and then named, lands somewhere between a careful gold coin’s worth and a memory one is reluctant to part with—the kind of figure that makes a buyer pause and listen to the buyer next to them, as if each has already heard the same whispered rumor about its blessing, and about what it can mend when a spear of winter and a wound of war collide. So it rests, not just as a tool for a hunter, but as a companion who carries the weight of mountains, a reminder that even objects can carry the duty to repair, to shield, and to endure.