Shaman's Shiverpeak Short Bow of Agony

Shaman's Shiverpeak Short Bow of Agony rests on a scarred cedar counter, its limbs pale as frostbitten bone, carved with runes that spiral like wind-twisted vines. The grip is wrapped in wounded-leather cords that smell faintly of pine resin and old snow, and the string hums with a cold, quiet music whenever the bow is drawn. The stock bears marks of long miles, scratches from winter quarrels and gloved hands that learned to respect the weapon's temper, while a small shard of blue ice is set into the notch at its tip, catching light and throwing it back as tiny, glittering teeth. Lorekeepers murmur that this bow was tempered in the high passes of Shiverpeak, where shamans bound the spirit of a blizzard to the wood, not to grant mercy but to sharpen it into teeth of wind. When the weapon sings, it is said, the air itself leans closer to listen, and the archer's aim seems to hold the world still for a heartbeat longer. In battle, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Short Bow of Agony does not merely deliver arrows; it transfers a quiet, old ache into every bolt. The arrows leave with a whisper, fastening to the target with frost-spark at the point of impact, and those struck feel the weight of mountains pressing down—an agony that slows movement and unsettles the breath of a foe. For a ranger who carries this bow, it becomes less about harsh numbers and more about telling a story with each shot: a story of frostbitten cliffs, of all-night vigils by the bonfire, of living in a place where even silence carries a chill. The weapon rewards those who read terrain, who fire from edges and shadows, who let the wind carry their intent as surely as the string carries the shaft. Its true strength is not brute force but the way it binds condition and control—every arrow a rune of restraint, every shot a chance to turn a skirmish into a measured ritual. Market whispers give the weapon a life beyond the throat of the woods. Traders in Saddlebag Exchange talk in hushed tones about this bow’s price, noting that its gleam has not faded with time and that its frost-drawn lore adds a premium. A hunter may barter with stories as much as coin, offering a cache of frost-inked skins and a tale of a storm-road rescue to seal the deal. In the end, the Shaman's Shiverpeak Short Bow of Agony is more than a tool; it is a bridge between trekked mountain passes and crowded markets, a relic that turns peril into rhythm, and a quiet, cold reminder that some burdens are meant to be borne with a steady stride and a steady aim. When the wind shifts and the slope grows slick, the bow becomes a quiet confidant, a trusted partner who has watched travelers grow old in their pursuit of the next horizon. Its legend, like frost, only deepens with every harvest moon. A quiet promise for tomorrow.