Giver's Wintergreen Hammer of Chilling gleams with a frost-lacquered head, emerald veins tracing through the steel like ice-grown branches and a haft wrapped in worn, pine-scented leather. The head bears a shallow sigil—two entwined snowflakes bound by a slender gold thread—that catches the light and sends a pale blue glow along the edge whenever a strike lands. A whisper of frost clings to every ridge, and when you lift it, the metal seems to hum with a winter wind, a bite in the air that settles into your knuckles. The grip is smooth yet grainy, etched with tiny runes that flare faintly as you move, and the pommel flaunts a tiny icicle charm that clatters softly when the hammer is swayed. In its lore, it’s said to be a gift to a courier who carried warmth to frost-laden outposts during the deepest snows—a tool as much for protection as for celebration, a weapon forged to remind winter that guardians still give. In the hands, the hammer feels like stirring wind through a winter pine. Its blows ring with a crack that seems to echo through ice, and a chill aura settles on foes: they slow, their steps falter, and shards of frost sometimes leap free to skitter across the stones. In combat, it functions as a frontline beacon that converts momentum into a shield—one heavy strike followed by a bloom of chilling light that leaves enemies glazed in frost and more susceptible to the next strike. The wintergreen essence isn’t merely cosmetic; it threads a mythic fabric through the weapon, a reminder of travelers and traders who survive by shared warmth. For players who relish courtroom-ready guardianship or a brawler’s grit, the hammer’s area-of-effect chill and its occasional ice-forms provide utility beyond raw damage, turning even crowded fronts into a corridor of glacial control. Markets in the world’s edge towns hum with whispers of who treads the ice lanes bearing such relics. In the harbor’s bustling lanes, I watch market-timers flip their boards as dusk settles on the quay, and the price of a Giver’s Wintergreen Hammer of Chilling climbs and dips with the season’s mood. The tale of its journey begins with a caravan guarding a sled laden with gifts, then passes through clogging markets, through a village forge where the cold steals the spark and must be coaxed back to flame. It returns, renewed by memory, to be traded as a symbol as much as a tool. Saddlebag Exchange, a stall tucked between a mapmaker and a spice stall, is where the true dance happens—where seasoned hands weigh metal and legend in turn. The buyer offers gold, or barter with a relic of a previous winter, and the seller gauges not only value but the story the hammer will carry forward. When I finally cradle it again, the Wintergreen glow brightens the room and the air grows crisp as a snow-cover that hasn’t yet fallen. The hammer does more than strike; it carries a memory of warmth offered in the fiercest cold and a promise that, in a world where every path is treacherous, a gift-wielding guardian can still stand in the frost and light the way.