Berserker's Draconic Helm

Berserker's Draconic Helm sits on a weathered display stand, its crown forged from smoky iron that drinks the light and returns only a hard, slate-gray gleam. The helm is plated with dragon-scale overlays—each scale a tiny shield, arranged in a sinuous pattern that mimics a dragon's spine as it arches over the brow. The edges are sharpened to a dangerous bevel, and the surface bears a lattice of charcoal runes that catch fire when violence boils in the air. A central crest, a jagged spine of brass, runs from temple to temple and tastes the glare of the room like a warning. Inside, the leather lining is soft and cool, stitched with a quiet care that keeps the helm snug against a wind-borne head. Whispers tell of smiths who tempered this helm in the breath of a sleeping dragon, then passed it along to berserkers who charged first and thought later, ferrying their war-cry into the teeth of flame and avalanche. The lore says the helm binds itself to a rider whose courage bleeds into the metal, turning raw nerve into measured ferocity. Wear it at the height of a melee, and the scales seem to shimmer with every strike, as if the creature once sealed beneath them leans forward to share its bite. On the field, the helmet channels a warrior’s most primal tempo. Those who mount a crit-heavy, berserk stance find their Power and Precision synergizing with Ferocity, letting each blow land with a harsher edge and a brighter flare. The crest rings with a barely contained roar when adrenaline surges, and the dragon-scales flash with a faint, ember-like glow just as a rallying cry tears through a chorus of shield and steel. It is not mere protection; it is a catalyst for momentum, coaxing cautious allies to press, and nudging reckless teammates toward the decisive strike that ends a skirmish before it truly begins. Market stories drift through campfires and crowded markets alike, and Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of place where the helm’s value is weighed against tales as much as metal. A pristine Berserker's Draconic Helm can command a healthy sum, traded for gold or a mix of valuable mats, with the glow of runes tipping the scale in favor of the buyer who carries the right legend. Prices drift with reputation and remembrance: what one captain pays for the monster in a raid another trader might offer for a token of honor earned in the North Pass. The exchange floor hums with barter, and in that murmur, the helm finds a new owner who believes the dragon’s breath still lingers, ready to bless another charge. In the end, the helm is a story worn on the head—the story of a berserker who chose flame over fear, of a dragon’s memory whispered into steel, and of a world where momentum, myth, and metal meet in a single, wild moment of resolve. If you listen closely, you can hear the dragon’s sigh guiding every dashed leap home.