Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Debility

Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of Debility gleams with frost-blue light, the glow resting in the curve of its ash-gray limbs as if winter itself had breathed on the wood and left a heartbeat behind. The grip is wrapped in fox-hide that has seen more storms than warm fires, rubbed smooth by countless hands, each finger trace leaving a faint, silvery line where oil and sinew have learned to cooperate. The riser bears a whisper-thin lattice of runes—old tongue, older intent—etched deep enough to feel with a gloved thumb, yet soft enough not to snag the fabric of coats or the fur of a winter cloak. The strings sing when drawn, a dry, brittle sigh that hints at the cold rumor of the Shiverpeak mountains, where the bow’s makers once traded favors with cave-speakers and the wind itself kept time. At the tips, small talismans carved from ivory glimmer, memory-charm guardians rumored to have bound a fragile peace between warring trackers and the winter’s own hunger. In the daylight the wood wears a pale patina, as if transparent ice had settled on the surface only to retreat when pressed, and in the quiet hours the bow seems to catch its breath, waiting for the moment it can answer a hunter’s call. This is not merely a weapon; it is a relic of a place where sunlight arrives late and conversations about survival endure long after the snow has melted. When you notch an arrow and pull the string, the Debility it channels feels like a frost-coated whisper skimming the spine. On impact, the bolt siphons a portion of the target’s vigor, dulling their bursts of speed and clouding their resolve, while the bow’s own enchantment—Mending—reaches out in a gentler pulse, nudging the wielder toward resilience. The effect is not a parade of showy tricks but a quiet duet: debility makes a foe stumble, a partner’s healing magic closes the misstep, and the bow’s quiet blessing tries to knit the moment back together before the skirmish becomes something heavier than a simple exchange of arrows. In practice, it favors a ranger who moves through danger with a healer’s conscience, a hunter who understands that breaking a foe’s stride can still leave a partner breathing. Lorekeepers tell of a smith named Eirun of the Shiverpeak who bound this weapon’s temper to the memory of a treaty once weathered to threadbare edges. The mending part grew from old rites meant to heal rifts between clans that had learned to distrust each other’s shadows. Those who wield the bow say it remembers the cost of every decision made under snowfall’s watch, and it will not forget the moment when mercy and tact preserved something worth keeping. In the markets, the tale travels with the money. Saddlebag Exchange is often the first stop for those who evaluate a bow like this: the price drifts with demand, the stories that accompany it, and the urgency of a buyer who believes the weapon can turn a night of siege into a dawn worth waking for. A seasoned trader will murmur about value in coin and memory, and a careful trade might settle around a handful of gold, a map bearing a faded clan seal, and a promise to deliver a cache of frost-weed roots for future repairs. The bow’s worth is more than metal and wood; it’s a chapter in a larger story, a wavering beacon in a world that survives by remembering what was mended and what remains to be kept whole.