Giver's Wintergreen Longbow of Chilling

Giver's Wintergreen Longbow of Chilling rests on the mantle, its shaft a pale, glassy green like frozen sap, curved with the elegance of a leaf mid-fall. The grip is wrapped in moss-colored leather that carries the smell of pine resin and cold wind, and the frog and nib of frost-traced runes along the belly catch every glimmer of light, turning it into a quiet, blue-glowing shimmer when the room grows chilly. The string is taut, a drawn breath waiting to be released, and a snowflake charm dangles from the nock, catching the lamplight and turning it into a whispered promise. It looks as though it was carved in a winter dawn, when the world is still and the air tastes of ice and evergreen. Legends say the Wintergreen wood was gifted by a solitary hunter who traded warmth for precision, a winter spirit’s mercy pressed into the grain. The “Giver’s” name is no accident: this bow was carried by those who shared more than they took, who protected caravans and cleared storm-worn trails for the weak and the weary. The “Chilling” suffix binds its arrows to the cold, not as a mere trick of frost but as a quiet pact—every shot carries a moment of frost that slows the target, as if time itself hesitates to approach a mark that has just tasted winter. In the hush after a volley, a frost-veiled silence lingers around the shooter, a reminder that mercy and menace can wear the same wooden skin. In the field, the bow’s role becomes a narrative thread. The first volley opens a scene: a skirmish along a snow-dusted ridge, where movement is everything and distance is a shield. The arrows leave with little noise, weaving through gusts as if they knew the landscape better than the wind. Those struck by frost slow, their steps turning uncertain, while the sharpshooter behind them threads a second line of fire. It’s a weapon built for restraint and control as much as for damage, ideal for keep-away tactics, zone denial, and weaving through rushing melee with a patient, calculated calm. Partners in a party quickly learn to time their healing and their bursts, to synchronize with the bow’s cold breath and the tempo of the fight. The Longbow of Chilling doesn’t just end encounters; it frames them—maps out the retreat, designates safer routes, marks the moments when an ally can press forward and seize the moment before the world warms again. Market whispers often drift through Divinity’s Reach like snowfall, and Saddlebag Exchange is the stage on which the bow’s legend wears its price. A trader will speak of mint-green wood and frost-kissed engravings, of a balance between rarity and desirability that can swing with the season. The exchange floor glitters with coins and barter, and the Giver’s Wintergreen Longbow of Chilling moves between hands with the softer patter of winter rain. A pristine specimen can command a higher price, while a well-loved one finds its value in the stories it tells—the shots it saved, the lines of frost that linger on armor long after the battle ends. In that marketplace, the signing of a deal feels less like arithmetic and more like sealing a contract with the North Wind itself. Later, when the moon climbs high and a fog of breath drifts in the market streets, the bow rests against a traveler’s back, the wintergreen wood thrumming with a quiet heartbeat. It is more than weapon and ornament; it is a memory carved into horn and flame, the sound of a winter promise kept, and the way a single shot can change a day and a road.