Giver's Candy Cane Hammer of Concentration

Giver's Candy Cane Hammer of Concentration rests on the warm wood of a market stall, its head a glossy peppermint swirl split by a single gleaming crack of frost—red and ivory twisting like a ritual ribbon around a heavy, hammer-like spine. The texture is a story in itself: smooth lacquer on the candy-striped head, rougher grip where the leather wrap has rubbed smooth from years of hands, the metal shaft cool and slightly resin-scented from wintersalt and pine. Carved runes along the shaft glow faintly with pale blue light, inscriptions that hum when the wind carries carols. Lore ties it to the Giver, the season's kindly traveler who brings gifts to those in need; this hammer is said to be a gift from that traveler, a tool given to a frontline protector who would keep faith and temperance in the frost. In gameplay, the hammer's magic translates to a practical boon: it enhances Concentration, lengthening boons for nearby allies. Wielders notice the aura; a swirling peppermint glow pulses when a strike lands, as if whispering to allies to hold their strength longer. In crowded fractals and night-time raids alike, that extra stave of time can tilt the balance—a few seconds when the frontline needs to hold. Players who collect festival loot value the piece for both its utility and its story; it is as much a symbol of community as it is a weapon. Trades near the festival square often revolve around it, and in the weeks after Wintersday, its price sees the same frosty drift as the coins in players' pockets. Saddlebag Exchange lists several active offers, and in whispers around the stalls the hammer tends to sit around 1.5 to 2 gold, with mint skins nudging higher. Collectors haggle as the bells ring, the crowd pressing closer to see the candy gleam and hear the tale that ties the gift to generosity itself. I watched a guard duo swap the hammer into a healer's hands during a winding Wintersday event; the moment the blade traded, the healer's Concentration stacked, and the frontline steadied as a chorus of icy sprites drifted away. Nearby, a skirmish sergeant kept a close eye on the timer as boons stretched longer, the hammer's peppermint glow flickering in rhythm with her shouts and the soldiers' breaths. And when the battle eased, the hammer did not vanish from memory; it lingered in the group's conversations, a talisman of shared effort, of gifts given and received. If you lean close to the counter and ask about prices, the clerk will tell you no one can truly own a story like this, not forever—only borrow it to keep the tune going. That is the hammer's true magic: a festival memory, a tool for care, a reminder that warmth can be wielded as deftly as iron. Its story keeps wandering, inviting new hands to add their gift.