Shaman's Shiverpeak Speargun of Agony

Shaman's Shiverpeak Speargun of Agony rests on a weathered counter, its stock dark as rain-soaked basalt and its barrel gleaming with a frost-blue sheen. The wood grain runs like horned ice, carved with runes that curl along the length in sharp, glacier-thin lines. A jawbone-like muzzle tip bristles with frost, and the whole thing is bound in faded leather that has molded itself to the grip through years of use. When you tilt it toward the light, tiny motes of frost drift upward, as if the weapon itself exhales a cold breath. The name is etched in a script that looks as if it were carved into ice and then warmed by a distant hearth, a paradox that makes you recall tales of Shiverpeak winds and shamans who spoke to wolves of winter. In the field, the Speargun feels like a scout’s secret: light enough to swing in a quick sequence, heavy enough to pin a target against cover, precise enough to drill through a guard rail set along a cliff edge. Its projectiles travel with a verdict of frost—pierce the shield, bite the skin, and leave a lingering chill that slows movement and muddles the breath. The Agony tether, a glimmering rune along the stock, tightens the weapon’s effect when it senses enemies that stand in the cold. Used wisely, it threads damage with control, turning a lone hunter into an ambassador of the glacier’s quiet, inexorable advance. Many front-line hunters speak of the way a single well-placed shot can crack a shield and open a corridor for comrades to rush through, like sunlight breaking over a frost-locked valley. There is also a larger story in its patina—the way this Speargun seems to resist time, as if it were carved by hands that remember the Shiverpeak ascendancy and the old tribes who spoke to the ice as one would speak to a wary companion. The lore breathes through the weight and the way the frost settles when it’s laid aside, insisting that every hunt leaves a mark not just on the quarry, but on the hunter who wields it. It’s the kind of relic researchers whisper about in the backrooms of caravans and boats, a piece of the mountain’s memory bound to a tool. Economically, the item tends to drift between collectors and combat skirmishes, trading hands through markets with the same ritual cadence as any sought-after relic. On a recent morning, a buyer in the docks mentioned Saddlebag Exchange, where brokers weigh stories as much as steel, and a price tag inches along a line between prestige and utility. The conversations are hushed, the negotiations patient, and the pulse of demand—frost and aggression in balance—pulses beneath the price as surely as the weapon hums when you lift it again to aim at a distant, treacherous horizon. When the snow settles back into its calm, speargun seems to listen for you, and you, in turn, listen for the shoreline where ice meets shadow and a hunter learns to wait.