Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow

Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow gleams with a frost-eyed polish, its limbs like pale ash carved with icy veins that catch the light and hold it, as if winter itself learned to breathe through the wood. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, stitched with copper thread that glints when the wind shifts, and the string has the taut, quiet discipline of a bowstring pulled tight before a long vigil. A faint sigil sits near the nock, a curl of runes that glows faintly when the air thickens with magic—a reminder that this is more than wood and sinew; it is a promise kept by a healer-smith who learned to bind warmth to the cold. Locals tell a tale that the bow was laid in the frost of Shiverpeak by a caravan guard who saved a village by winding ice into timber and naming the craft “mending” rather than merely mending wounds. When I first shouldered it, I felt the mountain's breath pass beneath the skin of the string, and the aura that flickered with each released arrow suggested not harm but restoration—like frost thawing on a locked door. Shots sing a little, leaving a trace of pale light that lingers on allies, mending small cuts of health and morale alike. In the right hands, it becomes a hinge where skirmish becomes mercy, where a rushed volley can buy a moment for the healer to step forward. That is the bow's true weather—the way it drifts between offense and care. Short bows favor rapid tempo and precise aim, and this one asks for more than hand-eye; it asks for foresight. A ranger can lay a frontline trap with it, then pull back to let healing signatures drift through the melee. A mercenary who carries it discovers that every shot can carry a whisper of salvation, a micro-verse of durability that holds a line together just long enough for a comrade to pull through a rough patch. It is not the loudest weapon in the chest, but in cracked hearts it works like quiet repair—a small, steady reminder that the world can be kept from breaking if you tend it. On market days the Saddlebag Exchange would catch my eye first, the gossip of traders riding in with glazed eyes and sunburnt cheeks, the bow lying on a velvet cloth among other rare wares. Its price is never written in a single ledger, but I heard tell that a well-kept Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow would fetch two gold coins, sometimes a touch more if the caravan is flush with buyers. I traded a cracked map and a vial of salve—modest exchange, but enough to secure the bow's future and feed its next guardian as surely as it had fed its last. And so the cycle continues: the mountains endure, and the bow endures with them, waiting for the next weathered hero to call its name. Some say its string carries prayers from every village it has steadied, waiting to be heard.