Healing Shiverpeak Bow glints with frost-lace along its polished ribs, the wood a pale, silvery white that seems to breathe when you cradle it. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, etched runes curling along the riser like frost veins. The string hums softly, a quiet tension that promises both precision and mercy. When you raise it to eye level, a shard of Shiverpeak ice is embedded near the notch, catching light in a way that makes the world outside look gentler, as if safety could be drawn from the bow's quiet obedience. The silhouette speaks of endurance—slender and sure, a hunter's companion that has learned to survive storms and long patrols through snow-molded villages. Its surface wears the patina of miles and miles, the small nicks that only add character rather than weakness. A ribbon of pale rune-stitching runs along the grip, a reminder of healers who tempered its magic and bound it to mercy. In its heart, the Healing Shiverpeak Bow does more than shoot. The weapon seems to listen; each arrow release sends a faint bloom of light that threads toward wounded allies within a careful reach. The bow's rune-work is tuned by frost-wielders who believed healing should travel as far and as quietly as a whisper in falling snow. In practice, that means quick, practical saves: a shot to pin down a shield while a rogue slips past, a follow-up hit that turns into a healing pulse, mending a breath back into a comrade who would otherwise falter. It is the kind of tool you bring into a winter dusk where stories trade hands as often as coins. That story has a place in everyday life as well as in skirmishes. A healer in the mountains keeps a lantern-lit clinic and speaks of the bow as a partner, not a weapon alone, its power measured in seconds of relief rather than damage. The bow's lore threads through taverns where elders swap legends of Shiverpeak monks and frost-born apprentices who discovered healing timber in its heart. It becomes a symbol—a trust between traveler and village, between the arc of wind and the breath of a wounded comrade. Pricing is never simple on the road. I found it one market morning at Saddlebag Exchange, where a leather-clad trader laid the Healing Shiverpeak Bow out beside a handful of coin and ledger sheets. The price ticked through the day like a tide, balancing silver and gold with whispered bargaining, and by sunset it settled at a figure that felt fair for a weapon offering both deliverance and protection. The bow found its new owner that evening, and in its price, as in its story, you hear a vow: to mend what harm wears through the snow and to walk another mile toward dawn.