Mending Shiverpeak Trident of Serpent Slaying

The Mending Shiverpeak Trident of Serpent Slaying rests in the palm of a seasoned trader, its frost-blue shaft catching the late afternoon light. The haft is carved from pale, weathered wood, as if hewn from a glacier’s core, with silver inlays that trace the sinews of a coiled serpent along its length. The head is a ritual of steel and bone, the tines curved like ice-spikes, and the blade bears a frost patina that never quite melts. Runes glow faintly along the grip, tiny marks that speak of mending and memory, a promise that a broken shaft or torn tackle might be made whole again by a patient hand. The leather wrap is dyed the pale blue of glacial melt, and the whole thing hums softly. Lore says it was forged in a shrine above the Shiverpeak, where hunters learned to blend ice magic with steel to face the river serpents that haunt the fjords. The trident’s serpentine motif is more than decoration; it is believed to keep venom at bay, channeling the healer’s frost to mend torn scales and cracked bones in the heat of battle. In the field, it isn’t merely a weapon. When struck against serpents or their hideouts, the trident seems to siphon away poison, leaving the wielder steadier under pressure. In skirmishes along fog-draped coves, it activates a brief shield of ice around the forearms, a boon that lets archers and healers alike keep pace with a relentless tide. For the hunter who understands the stories etched into the haft, every swing becomes a continuation of a larger saga: a lineage of guardians who refused to surrender rivers to night. Prices are never fixed in the market stalls of caravan routes; at Saddlebag Exchange it moves with the tide, a barter of memory and craft. I watched a trader offer this very trident for a tale of a serpent that learned to mimic human laughter, then a counter-offer from a collector who claimed it had saved him from a ruined boat in a sudden squall. The final mark hovered around three gold pieces, a sum that felt appropriate given its repairs, reputation, and the whispers that it might one day mend a breaking oath as well as a broken blade. The price, of course, is as much about stories as steel. Back in the harbor, a caravan captain strapped it across a crate, telling me the trident had seen more reefs than most sailors. In the crowd, buyers and sellers spoke of upgrades: a deeper frost, a tougher grip, runes that mend bone and blade after storms. Holding it, I felt the weight of a vow to keep the rivers safe from venom, to repair what the world would rather discard. The Mending Shiverpeak Trident of Serpent Slaying doesn’t merely end battles—it stitches the story of the mountains, the seas, and the serpents that bite at winter’s edge. In a world where survival grows fragile with each tide, that stitching matters. Its quiet endurance endures.