The Giver's Wintergreen Pistol of Chilling gleams with a quiet, almost ceremonial cold. The brass barrel wears a pale frost patina, each etching catching the light like delicate ice sculptures caught in a winter sun. Its grip is a smooth, dark wood that has learned the shape of a hand—the kind of wood that warms slightly where fingers press, then returns to coolness the moment you loosen your grip. A narrow band of wintergreen-green inlay winds along the frame, echoing evergreen needles and the quiet promise of cold days to come. The pistol’s badge—an emblem of a giver, a token of Wintersday hospitality—is lightly stamped near the trigger, a reminder that this weapon began as a gift before it learned to defend a village, a caravan, a stubborn torch-lit doorway against the night. Its texture feels dry to the touch, as if it remembers the dryness of frost-wrapped air, yet there’s a subtle oiliness on the metal that hints at careful maintenance by hands that know the season’s secrets. When you lift it, the balance is precise and almost musical, like a lullaby you could fire into the wind. The Wintergreen Pistol of Chilling isn’t just a pretty artifact; its lore threads through the world like a whispered tale told around a winter hearth. Forged or gifted in the aftermath of a harsh season, it’s said to carry the chill of the last snowfall and the warmth of a community that refused to abandon one another. The name “Chilling” isn’t merely a descriptor of its frost-kissed appearance; it speaks to the pistol’s core purpose on the field: it applies a chill to foes, gradually slowing their steps and their spirits as the battle wears on. In practice, the weapon fires precise, frost-laced shots that sap movement speed and force a slower march through skirmishes. It doesn’t just deal damage; it buys time for allies, creating openings, turning a tight frontline into something more navigable. In quiet moments between skirmishes, veteran keepers of Wintersday lore tell how the weapon’s frost binds to enemies long enough for a healer’s warmth to reach the wounded or for a strike squad to slip through a line that thought it secure. In the world’s markets, the pistol finds a home with traders and collectors who understand the hum of history in a baroque trigger pull. I watched a dealer tease the piece from a velvet-lined case, the price cursor hovering over a few glinting gold coins. A memory clung to the handle—the way a buyer might cradle it, not for glory, but for the shared memory of a village saved by a gift-wielding stranger who chose steel and ice over fear. The Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling tent city where explorers swap stories and wares, felt like the right place to gauge its value—so I listened to murmured negotiations and watched the price swing with the same rhythm as a heartbeat in winter. It wasn’t merely currency that tipped the balance, but the pistol’s story: a tangible reminder that generosity can endure, even when the world has grown cold. As I pocketed the Giver’s Wintergreen Pistol of Chilling, the air seemed to carry a scent of evergreen and snowfall—the quiet blessing of a weapon that remembers the gift it began as and the battles it helps to endure.