Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of the Hydromancer

Mending Shiverpeak Short Bow of the Hydromancer gleams in hand, the wood a pale frost-blue, grain etched like shoreline frost and hardened under a lacquer that catches every glimmer of pale light. The grip is wrapped in stitched rawhide, cool to the palm, with a subtle ridging that feels almost like frost on skin. The bow's limbs curve with the quiet arrogance of a glacier, and the string, taut and singing, hums when drawn, as if whispering the mountain's old weather. Along the riser runes glow faintly—glyphs of rain, tide, and mend—etched in a watery blue that shifts with the angle of sight. A carved hydromancer sigil sits at the center, a stylized drop that seems to tremble when you breathe on it, as if it knows the next storm before it arrives. To hold it is to feel a promise of repair—the kind of promise that keeps a traveler moving when a camp is a mile behind a broken leg, or when a shieldbearer needs a second wind. In the field, the bow is more than a weapon; it is a conduit for water-woven magic. When you nock an arrow and draw, a chill leaks from the wood, and a ripple of healing light flows into allies struck by the bolt. The hydromancer's craft doesn't mend armor as clumsy patchwork does; it minds the moment of fracture, knitting minor wounds, numbing the sting of frostbite, smoothing over the fatigue that slows a line in retreat. For a ranger or support build that leans on control and endurance, its pulses of mend can turn a skirmish into a chance to press forward, a moment to reposition rather than retreat. The lore behind the bow says it was tempered where the Shiverpeak storms meet the sea, blessed by a circle of hydromancers who learned to listen to the rain as if it spoke a language. They carved the runes into the wood and bound the weapon's life to a rain-drawn vow: to mend the broken, whether it be a joint, a trust, or a battered morale. Market days sometimes bring questions of value that drift along the river like driftwood, and it is here, at Saddlebag Exchange, that such a gift changes hands with a practiced nod. I watched the clerk flip a ledger as a rain-slick breeze teased the awning, and the price came clear—several gold coins, plus a handful of silver for good measure—talked into a bargain between two travelers who trusted the bow to keep them moving. The exchange is not merely a stall; it is a ledger of fates, a place where a Hydromancer's bow becomes a shared resource for those who keep walking. Back on the road, the Mending Shiverpeak does not merely shoot; it repairs, it reassures, it binds the next march to the last. It becomes a character in the road-worn story of those who carry it, a quiet reminder that sometimes the strongest weapon is a bow that remembers to heal and endure.