The Mending Shiverpeak Handcannon of Grawl Slaying rests on the table, its barrel a frost-veined cylinder of steel, the blue patina catching the light like a thin glacial trickle. Runes trace a delicate lattice along the length, each sigil cooled into place with patient care, and the grip is wrapped in weather-darkened leather that smells faintly of pine and old charcoal. A faint, pale glow glides along the seams when the hammer is cocked, as if the gun itself breathes and mends a little with every pull. The name, etched in a careful, almost reverent hand, reads like a whispered legend: a weapon built to repair what raids and time would otherwise scar. Lore threads through its metallic spine as surely as the frost threads through Shiverpeak stone. They say the handcannon was forged in a winter-lit workshop where dwarven smiths once tuned cold to a sharper edge, imbuing it with a quiet mercy toward its victims and its wielder. A hunter who saved a caravan from a Grawl assault carried the first prototype into a long night, and the elders swore the weapon mended not only armor and sinew but the memory of loss itself. In the stories that follow traders along the caravan routes, the gun is described as both hammer and hymn—a tool that drives back chaos and slowly cups the wounded world in a careful, gloved hand. In the field, its significance unfolds like a well-worn map. Its shots sing with a measured patience, a frost-kissed tempo that slows a pursuer as if time itself wore mittens. The handcannon seems to crave a hunter’s rhythm: a measured pull, a heartbeat of release, a breath that fogs the air as frost blooms along the muzzle. Where other guns howl for decisive matter, this one murmurs, “We mend what we break,” offering a small mercy after a skirmish. For those guarding caravans or pressing into Grawl-outpost corridors, the weapon is less about showy damage and more about a steady, reliable companion that helps you endure the night—and the next raid that might break like glass at the margins of the map. The world around it grows around that dual voice: the gun’s practical utility and its lore-fed aura. Guards and scouts pass it between hands like a pledge, a reminder that courage can be tempered with care. Its emblematic power is not merely in the frost-shot or the self-repairing whispers of metal, but in how its presence steadies a party, invites whispered prayers around a campfire, and deepens the sense that gear can carry memory as deftly as it carries round after round. Pricing, when the market breathes slow and the coins change hands, folds into the tale with a trader’s grin and a buyer’s careful tally. I wandered into the Saddlebag Exchange, the stalls thick with salt and rain and a crowd that knew the old routes by heart. The Handcannon hung there, gleaming, and the price tag—though spoken in hushed bargaining—felt fair enough to honor the lore it carries. It wasn’t merely metal and enchantment; it was a pledge that some wounds can be left to heal, even as others must be faced with a steady hand and a glacial, resolute aim.