Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Grawl Slaying

Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Grawl Slaying gleams with frost-bright luster, its grip wrapped in weathered leather that has the scent of pine and smoke. The bow’s limbs, pale as winter ice, bear delicate carvings—runes that wind along the riser in fine silver threads and a chalk-white crest shaped like a glacier’s edge. The string sings when drawn, a quiet sigh of tension almost like a breath held in a frozen valley. Fletches of arctic hawk feather fan from the nock, and a tiny silver charm, cold to the touch, hangs from the bow’s lower limb—an emblem of the Shiverpeak artisans who tempered this weapon in the breath of their mountains. It looks both ancient and newly minted, as if the snow itself had kissed the wood to life. Inscribed within its bark-smooth grip are stories the eye alone cannot finish: a lineage of hunts where frost met fire, where a hunter’s vow to keep Grawl raiders at bay became the lexicon of this weapon. The Mending Shiverpeak’s title is no mere boast. It was forged in the shadow of a divided border, when a war-band of Grawl pressed through the ice-winds and the elder dwarves of Shiverpeak poured a chill into the weapon’s heart to bind it to their oath. Legends say the bow’s runes breathe, repairing nicks after every skirmish, as if the mountain itself lends a hand to keep the hunter’s aim true. To hold it is to feel the weight of a pact—one that has outlived many winters and the names of those who first whispered to the wood. In the world, it is more than a relic; it is a practical companion in the field. Drawn and released, the bow’s arrows cut through the pale fog with a precise, glacial arc. The frost-haunted shaft can slow a Grawl enough to tilt the balance of a night ambush, letting a team of scouts slip into the cover of pines without a single echo betraying them. Its enchantment—gentle and stubborn—helps mend the weapon between hunts, small scratches closing as the snow mends the earth. It rewards patience and restraint as much as it does quick aim, fitting the caller’s instinct for a clean, decisive shot against armored hides and stubborn bulk. On a sun-darkened afternoon, I found it perched in a humble stall, its price whispered by traders and turned over in careful hands. The Saddlebag Exchange, a roan-cart port of call for those who barter with the road-weary and the hopeful, laid it out on a saddle-stitched cloth. The stall owner spoke softly of demand: a veteran’s bow like this moves slowly—rare enough to tempt, common enough to beguile a newer hunter into overreaching. The tag read in careful script, roughly a gold and a half, but a patient negotiator could walk away with a fairer hand. After a few coins shuffled, the trade settled closer to a gold, with a handful of silver for cushion. The bow found a new owner not far from here, and as I watched the exchange close, I understood the market’s compass: every item carries a story, every buyer a part of it, and every price a weather pattern that shifts with the winds of war and peace alike. So the Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Grawl Slaying remains not just a weapon, but a ledger carved in ice—a record of vows kept, foes outpaced, and the quiet certainty that some winters are survived only with a trusted ally at your side.