Berserker's Tempered Scale Helm

Berserker's Tempered Scale Helm gleams with a dragon-scale shimmer, each plate a curved shield of tempered steel that overlaps like a sleeping dragon's scales. The surface catches light in stubborn, oily swirls, coppery across the center ridge and fading to iron-gray at the edges, with a lacquered black rim that sharpens the silhouette against helmetless daylight. The scales are small and tightly set, each a little weathered tile that has learned the language of heat and blade; the brow bears a shallow crest, and the interior is trimmed with warm leather that remembers countless campaigns. In the sun, frost-like reflections ride the inner curve, hints of tempering patience that kept this helm from warping under flame and hammer. It feels heavy with history yet sensibly balanced, as if it knows when to mute a scream and when to turn a charge into a breakneck sprint. Crafted, they say, by the same hands who tempered the old berserker's oath—those who believed the wearer should look into the eye of a storm and still be listening for the next strike. The lore goes that a forge in a ruined watchtower kept the fire alive with the breath of the slain, forging scales that could weather both iron and will. When the helm sits on a head, you nearly feel the whisper of ancient war songs, the memory of a siege that never quite ended. In the trenches of skirmishes and in the quiet of markets, the helm is more than horns and shine. It grants Power, Precision, and Ferocity—traits prized by those who prefer a brutal burst to slow, measured tempo. It invites you to pump your charge, time your crits, and let your next swing ride the breath you borrow from the storm. The weight anchors a reckoning—when you break into a push and shoulder a way through, the helm becomes a compass, guiding you toward the next target, the next shout, the next victory. I watched the helm pass through the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders swap stories as freely as coin. A caravan boss muttered that the helm would fetch a tidy three to four gold if well preserved, a price that those who haunt the byways know is fair given the tempering and the lore. The Exchange's riders shuffled the parcel into a leather-wrapped crate, chalking its journey from a northern forge to a sunlit stall in Divinity's Reach, and the buyer's eyes brightened at the gleam of something that promised not just protection but a stubborn, unstoppable will. It lives on in every battle where a berserker charges, and in every campfire tale told after the march. As the market noise settles, the helm rests on a wooden peg, gleaming with the memory of a thousand clashes. For the wearer, it is a partner in the storm, a trusted listener when the world answers back in steel and roar. And when the next caravan comes through, pausing at the gate to trade a story as well as gear, the Berserker's Tempered Scale Helm will carry its own rumor forward, another chapter in a long, unforgiving road.