Mending Norn Speargun of Earth

The Mending Norn Speargun of Earth rests on a weathered oak pedestal, its stock so smooth you could skate a finger along the grain without catching a splinter. The wood carries a muted bronze patina where years of handling have worn away the rougher outer layer, revealing a honeyed undergrain that glows faintly amber in lamplight. Brass inlays coil along the spine like roots breaking through rock, and the barrel—steel-dark and lacquered in a forest-green—catches the eye with a quiet, patient gleam. A carved sigil of the Norn totem, a horned bear, sits at the butt, surrounded by etched runes that resemble living earth: soil, stone, root. The spearhead at the business end looks almost elemental, a shard of obsidian-sharp stone set into iron, with a sheen that shifts from moss to graphite as the sun moves. Leather wrapping around the grip bears the marks of long practice—oil-darkened, stiff with years yet supple at the thumb’s touch, as if the speargun has learned your own pace and heartbeat. Lore threads through its design as surely as the cord threads through its mechanism. Local storytellers insist the Mending Norn Speargun was forged in the elder forges where the earth itself is said to listen, blessed by a mend-wright who mastered both tool and terrain. They claim the weapon is more than a weapon: it is a covenant between hunter and homeland, a conduit that takes the wear of field and wind and returns it to the land in the form of quiet healing—mended gear, steadier hands, a little more resilience when the day’s hunt grows long. When you pull the trigger, the air seems to warm for a heartbeat, as if the earth were smoothing rough edges on your behalf, not just launching a harpoon. It is said to remember the wounds it has helped seal, and to value the trust of those who carry it into storms. In practical terms the speargun has always felt as much at home in the camp as in the skirmish. Its “Mending” enchantment isn’t simply a flourish; during tight fights it steadies allies by turning raw vitality into a touch of repair—an edge in a pinch, a minor repair to torn leather, a shield-busting break in a broken day. Players who lean into support roles discover that its earthward cadence complements healing and stabilization, weaving a constant thread of recovery through the frontlines. When you line up a shot to pin a foe and then pivot to mend a wounded companion, the weapon’s aura seems to lean in, a reminder that healing and hunting are two faces of the same earth, both earned with patience and care. Markets in the coastal towns carry relics like it, and today a glassy tag clings to the hilt with a price note that speaks of the Saddlebag Exchange—an itinerant market known for brokering veteran gear. The clerk’s handwriting hovers over a ledger that marks it as a rare, sought-after piece, with a price tag that’s manageable to serious collectors and seasoned crafters alike: a fair amount in silver, with a handful of copper for haggling, enough to tempt a prudent buyer who isn’t chasing flashes of glory but the quiet certainty of a tool that will mend not just gear, but a day’s worth of trust and story. So it sits, the Mending Norn Speargun of Earth, a tangible whisper of why this land endures: tools that heal, stories that endure, and a fellowship between hunter and homeland that refuses to break under pressure.