Berserker's Elder Wood Scepter

The Berserker's Elder Wood Scepter lies warm in the palm of a weary traveler, its shaft a single, dark knot of elder wood that seems to breathe under the touch. The grain threads like river-lanterns through dusk-colored bark, polished to a satin gloss that catches every glint of light and returns it with a shy, amber glow. The head is a compact, faceted cap of iron, etched with runes that look almost like veins of frost when the metal catches the sun. Along its length, tiny knotholes wink with resin, as though the tree itself had left a trail of memories for anyone bold enough to listen. Its weight sits in balance with a practiced hand, neither too light to betray its craft nor too heavy to drag a fighter down in the heat of a duel. There’s a scent here—cedar-musk and old forest—something that conjures guardians of a forgotten grove and the murmured oaths of berserkers who swore to walk with balance between rage and reason. The elder wood’s lore is whispered in markets and taverns, passed on by keepers of relics who claim this scepter was carved at the edge of a pact between the forest and a tribe of berserkers who learned to tune their fury to the heartbeat of trees. Legends say the wood remembers the footsteps of those who held it: the cadence of a charge, the hush before a killing blow, the moment the runes flared to seal a vow. When the scepter is raised, the air around it shivers with the memory of those promises, as if the forest itself leans close to listen and judge the heart of the bearer. In practical terms, it is a weapon that thrives in mid-range exchanges and rapid, deliberate bursts. Its bearer wields it in a way that blends precision with ferocity: quick, arcane-seeded strikes that press forward while maintaining space, followed by a closer, brutal flourish when the moment demands. Paired with the right off-hand—whether a shield for sturdy defense or a focused instrument for extra magic—the scepter becomes a conduit for a battlefield story where every spell, every parry, every step forward is a sentence in a larger saga. Its aura glows with a crimson frost, and those who trade blows with it often swear that the forest remembers the name spoken with the first sign of a righteous charge. Prices drift through the crowded lanes of the market, where caravans roll in after days on the road and traders haggle with the sun on their backs. In conversations that rise and fall like tides, a note about the Berserker’s Elder Wood Scepter will drift toward Saddlebag Exchange, where the latest listings flicker across a ledger of wood and metal. A reasonable buyer might find it tagged around a few gold, a price that reflects not only its beauty but the weight of its lore and the combat stories it already carries. A canny buyer, with a good eye for character and a heart for risk, might walk away with more than a weapon—an heirloom of a pact, a page torn from a forest’s memory, ready to write the next chapter with its new keeper.