Mending Shiverpeak Speargun

Mending Shiverpeak Speargun rests on a scarred pine table, its barrel a ribbon of frost-coated steel that catches the dim glow of lanterns. The stock is driftwood weathered by long voyages, grain like a map of salt-stung weather, and the grip wrapped in dark whale-bone leather that sighs with every touch. Along the length, runes burned into the metal flicker pale blue, tracing a line from muzzle to butt as if the weapon remembered every voyage it has seen. The spearhead is leaf-shaped, pale and gleaming, sharpened not just to pierce but to catch light and fracture it into ice when it strikes. A narrow seam along the spine holds a slender band of sinew and glass that hums with a quiet energy, a signature of the mending magic bound into its core. It does not spit fire or thunder; instead, it breathes frost and cure, a paradox of cold and care. In the lore of the Shiverpeak clans, this gun was the first aid kit you could shoot—an instrument designed to mend as surely as it pierces. Its maker, a fisher-sage who read storms and broken bones with the same patient eye, carved his creed into the weapon: mend what rusts, heal what breaks, never waste a chance to save a life in the churn of battle. Sailors and scribe-brothers tell of nights when a single shot settled torn rigging and soothed fevered comrades, as if a prayer rode the wire and landed in the wounded captain’s hands. On the field, the Mending Shiverpeak Speargun is a tool for skirmishers who move with the sea’s rhythm: a shot that harms and, in its wake, spills a healing pulse for nearby allies. Its aura-like effect patches armor, patches broken lines, and keeps the crew moving forward when the tide seems to turn. It is not the loudest instrument in battle, yet its presence slows the tempo of chaos, turning a strike into a stay, a near-fall into a safe harbor. At the harbor market, a trader set its price on a creaking board in the Saddlebag Exchange, listing it around twenty-eight silver, negotiable depending on the buyer’s tongue and the seller’s patience. The sign above the stall creaked with the breeze, and buyers haggled with the practiced ease of longshore folk. The item’s value, though measured in coins, felt more like a lifeline in a storm: a chance to mend a comrade, to keep the line from breaking, to keep moving toward tomorrow. To hold it is to recall icebound shores, the hands that repaired nets and broken bones alike, and the stubborn courage to press on. The Mending Shiverpeak Speargun isn’t merely gear; it’s a quiet contract with the sea, a promise that even in darkness there is a way to heal and continue the voyage. Some evenings, the weapon rests in a sailor’s hands, and a fisherman recalls kin who returned, feeling weight of duty settle softly.