Mending Shiverpeak Wand of Grawl Slaying rests in the palm like a piece of winter carved from a glacier. The shaft is of frost-dark wood, veins of pale ice tracing its length, and the grip is wrapped in tanned leather that smells faintly of snow and old pine. At the wand’s tip, a chip of Shiverpeak ice catches the light, and sigils etched along the flute-like groove glow with a pale blue breath when you raise it to the wind. It feels cold to the touch, as if it carries a breath from the mountains themselves, and its weight is comforting, not heavy, as though the mountain would steady your hand for a moment longer. Lore whispers that it was forged in a highland workshop where frost smiths tempered steel with winter's song. It was said to have been blessed to a hunter who tracked Grawl raiders from the edge of the Shiverpeak Mountains, a wand that would slice through their tangled fur and icy armor while mending the hunter's own wounds with frost-charmed whispers. The runes sing when the air grows thin, and if you listen closely you can swear you hear a distant avalanche, as if the wand carries a memory of stone, snow, and mercy. In play, the Mending Shiverpeak Wand of Grawl Slaying is more than a pretty relic. It channels a disciplined frost magic that feels precise, almost surgical, in its application. When drawn, it helps focus elemental currents, guiding frost and healing energy in tandem. Its signature enchantment—Mending—drips a cold glow along the caster’s forearms and lends a steadying heat to the wielder after each bold strike against a Grawl. Some nights, those minutes between clashes stretch long as a snowdrift, and the wand seems to ferry a survivor’s calm as much as it delivers a blow. In a larger arc, it earns its keep in group fights where a lone wand can peel away the ragged edge of a mob while the rest of the party moves in for the kill; against a Grawl captain, its slaying sigil shines brighter, rewarding patience with a burst of restorative frost. Markets around the trading routes pulse with stories about the wand, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where those stories converge with prices. I watched a grizzled broker lay the wand on a battered wooden counter, its blue glow painting the coins in his eyes as he named a tag: roughly two gold, with room to barter for a half-dozen rare flakes of frost-kissed ore. A younger dealer, always calculating, pressed for a faster deal, whispering that the Exchange loves a quick sale of a proven relic. We swapped stories, a few traded trinkets, and the wand changed hands in a breath, slipping into a new owner’s glove and into the ongoing chronicle of the Shiverpeak’s guardians. And so the wand travels on, a quiet witness to skirmishes and seasons, a reminder that the mountain’s mercy can be as sharp as its ice, ready to mend, and ready to strike.