Mending Shiverpeak Speargun of Serpent Slaying

Cold to the touch, the Mending Shiverpeak Speargun of Serpent Slaying rests on a leather-wrapped cloth, its frost-blue patina catching the moon like a thin shard of ice that refuses to melt. The stock is carved from ashwood weathered by wind and time, the grain running pale and sharp as if frozen rivers under the skin of the mountain. Inlaid along the spine are delicate bone accents, each piece worn smooth by a hunter’s grip, and serpentine scales etched in relief curl along the length, catching light with a subtle, almost patient sheen. The barrel curves in a silent arc, forged from meteoric steel that bears a faint frost bloom, a whisper of glacial energy that hums when the night air grows thin. Runes glow along the length of the barrel in a pale blue, runic letters I cannot pronounce but can almost hear—a stitching spell that links the weapon’s heart to the wearer’s intent. The harpoon head gleams with a sharp, ancient mercy, and the line that binds it to the stock is braided with ice-thread, cool to the touch and endlessly patient, ready to snap taut at a moment’s notice. Lore threads itself through these details as if the weapon itself were a map someone forgot to fold properly. The Shiverpeak rangers, the old keepers of frost and passage, are said to have tempered this speargun in the same breath they used to quiet a feverish serpent that haunted the glaciers. “Serpent Slaying” marks not just the target but the hunter who faced a creature that pulled at the world’s seams, while “Mending” hints at a deeper purpose: a rune-craft that stitches torn flesh and broken resolve alike, a reminder that wounds in the cold land are fragile things and deserve careful tending. In the right hands, the weapon seems to breathe with you—its frost-crowned breath easing the tremor in a gunner’s shoulder and, some nights, murmuring of a companion’s steadiness when the trail grows slick with ice and doubt. In the field, its uses feel woven into the larger tale of the world itself. It’s a tool for precise, sustained strikes against serpent cults and frost-bitten bosses, yes, but it’s also a lifeline when allies stumble and wounds fester in the snow. A well-placed shot can pull a foe into position, seal a gap in formation, or unleash a cascade of glacial energy that buys time for a fallen comrade to rise again. The weapon’s elegance lies in how it threads threat and mercy together, turning every encounter into a small, careful repair of a broken story. A few nights ago, I traded stories with a weather-beaten dealer at Saddlebag Exchange, the market’s awning snapping in the wind as coins clinked and promises tangled in the air. He eyed the speargun as if weighing a chapter of history, then spoke in a low, knowing gauge of voice: the price reflected its rarity, the risk of losing a life to its edge, and the quiet magic of the mending rune. We settled on a price that involved silver, a traded voucher from a river port, and a handful of carved bone pipettes—merchandise from travelers who crossed cold rivers for a pardon or a bit of luck. The deal, sealed on the second moon of winter, felt less like commerce than a handoff of a story—one that would be told again whenever the frost-bitten skies opened and someone needed both a weapon and a whisper of repair.