Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow

The Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow rests on a rough-hewn sapling stand, its limbs pale as frost-etched bone and its grip wrapped in weathered leather that smells faintly of pine resin. A glacier-blue lacquer clings to the wood, catching light in micro-sparks that travel along the grain when the wind shifts. The string, taut and pale, hums softly as you draw it—a note of quiet promise rather than a weapon's rasp. Silver runes run along the bow's belly, quiet and patient, telling of Shiverpeak smiths who tempered it in the heart of a freezing storm, when the mountains exhaled patience and caravans sheltered behind ice-sheathed crags. The bow's profile is slender, almost delicate, yet the wood holds a stubborn memory of gales; your fingers feel the weight of those centuries as you nock your first arrow and test the breath of the string. In use it moves through a skirmish with a hunter's ease—rapid, precise, and forgiving enough to let a novice find direction in the middle of a howl. The Mending enchantment is what makes it more than a tool: with every arrow that lands, a thread of healing glides along the path, stitching minor wounds and easing breath for the ally at your side. It is not a miracle, but it is a patient friend, turning a hard fire into a steadier one and giving a frontline crew a moment longer to stand their ground. In the shoulder-ward whisper of a shot, you feel the world tilt toward proportion—armor grit falls away, frost-breath softens, and the next step toward safety feels more attainable because the bow remembers mountain steadiness. Woven into the world around it are stories of those who carried such wood into the night—hunters who found shelter in the arches of canyon walls, rangers who stood as the mountain's first line of defense, and apprentices who learned patience from every drawn breath. The Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow is not merely equipment; it is a shared memory of stone and snow, a vow that even when the world grows harsher, skill and care can mend what is worn and weary. When I wandered into the market tents after a long patrol, the talk turned to price as the light faded to copper. There, at the edge of the Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan of traders and tinkerers inspected the bow as if it were a relic and a tool at once. The price rose and fell with the hush of bargaining, but the seller spoke with a quiet certainty—around two gold, a handful of silver, a sum worth investing not just in one day of combat but in the memories a veteran would carry into many winters. I walked away with the bow cradled close, the leather still warm from a recent catch of sun, and a sense that I had bought more than an instrument—I had bought a tether to the mountains themselves, a promise that, no matter the frost, the line would hold. The bow holds, unyielding.