Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow

The Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow rests across a frost-dark railing, its grip wrapped in weathered snow-leather that sighs when you brush your fingers along it. The limbs are pale as glacier ice, polished to a satin sheen and etched with swirling blue sigils that glimmer like the surface of a thawing pool. A slim runed inlay runs along the belly of each limb, and the horn nock at the end catches the lamplight with a quiet, patient sparkle. The string, taut as a vow, vibrates with a soft, frost-cold hum when drawn, and a small lilac gem near the grip pulses faintly—a heartbeat trapped in wood and resin. It is a short bow that seems to carry weather in its grain, a fragment of Shiverpeak carved into weapon and tale. Locals tell of a ranger-healer who wandered the pass between snowfields and avalanches, binding life to ice with slow, deliberate craft. She carved runes into the bow to remind herself of the mountain's mercy: that even the hardest edge can mend. When the bow sings, the air grows cooler and the first green shoots of life push through the frost around the target; arrows do not merely strike—they ferry a breath of restoration to allies caught in the storm of battle. In practice, veterans say the Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow rewards accuracy and tempo, pairing precise shots with fleeting healing pulses that blink across the frontline. Its name is not vanity; it is a promise, a reminder that even in the treacherous cold there is room for repair. On market days, I watch a string of merchants lay out wares on sun-warmed boards, and one stall—Saddlebag Exchange—draws a patient crowd. A clerk with chalk-white sleeves handles the bow as if it were a relic and not a weapon, tracing along the sigils, weighing the wood against the chill that lingers in the grain. The price sits in a little ledger, six gold coins and a handful of silver, a line drawn in neat script that travelers debate with smiles and sighs. Buyers lean in to hear the healer's tale that accompanies the bow—how it has mended more than one ally's breath in the field, how the frost-runed wood seems to slip a healing whisper into the air when the shot lands true. The exchange is not only a sale; it is a passing of responsibility, a pact that whoever wields it will guard their team with patience and care. To hold it is to feel the weight of the mountain’s mercy, a quiet oath pressed into the palm by smooth wood and cool magic. The Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow does not shout; it waits, ready to answer—not just with a strike, but with a second chance, a small, glistening promise that even in winter, someone can be saved. Some nights, the bow’s frost-slick wood smells faintly of pine and salt, and I swear I hear distant bells tolling from the peaks as if the mountain itself approves the aid it inspires—quiet, enduring, true.