Berserker's Ogre Effigy

Berserker's Ogre Effigy sits on the sun-warmed counter, a squat, weather-beaten statue that seems to have stepped out of a caravan ledger and into a quiet stall. Its bulk is carved from a single block of stone that carries the faint scent of rain and old wood, with rough pores where time or a hammer once tested its resolve. Its ogre's face is heavy-lidded, jaw slack and almost peaceful, save for a row of chipped ivory teeth and eyes inlaid with ember-red glass that seem to glow when a flicker of light catches them. A tangle of rune-carved bands circles its chest, and a battered, replica-era axe rests across the broad, scarred shoulders—a ceremonial weapon rather than a hunter’s tool. The base is uneven, as if the statue had stood upright in a windswept grove and then settled into a shelf, the grain on the wood beneath it worn smooth by countless fingertips. Texture tells its own story. The stone has a cool, granular feel, weathered to a matte finish that catches dust like fine powder. It isn’t polished; it’s a relic meant to be touched, pressed, and whispered to, as if the ogre it represents could be persuaded to bend a listening ear to those who carry it. The glaze, where it exists, is a pale, muddy ochre, lacing the surface like dried mud over armor. The effigy’s posture—half-guard, half-gladiator—speaks to a lore that survives in tavern tales: ogres who rode with berserkers, their spirits bound to the battlefield by totems and stubborn promises. The engraving along the axe blade harks back to a long-vanished rite, a rite that many scholars shrug off as myth, yet a few old mercenaries swear by, insisting the carved symbols still hum when the moon is right. In practice, the effigy carries a quiet weight in the world, a tangible reminder of a pact between aggressor and guardian old as trade roads. Players prize it not merely as a decorative piece but as a thing that binds memory to space. When placed in a home hall or guild enclave, it is said to lend a certain resolve to those who lay eyes upon it—an aura more about posture than prowess, a nudge toward bold decisions in tense moments. Collectors trade from stall to stall, and that lore of the berserker’s pact becomes a currency of trust—each bidder listening for a glimmer of the old ogre’s stubborn loyalty that the effigy seems to owe to whoever holds it. The market is its own field of play, with Saddlebag Exchange surfacing as the natural waypoint where these relics surface and disappear again with the rhythm of caravans. A price tag, inked in careful scribbles, often hovers there like a rumor—not exorbitant, not meager, but a steady reminder that some relics hold more than gold; they hold a story that travels as far as the buyers and sellers will carry it. A buyer might tell you that the effigy anchors a tale you’ll tell for years, while a seller will insist that it’s a reminder you ought to pass along to the next curious traveler. Ultimately, the Berserker's Ogre Effigy is more than stone and glaze. It is a bookmark in a longer saga, a weathered oath pressed into a carved memorial, tempting you to keep the legend alive wherever you call your camp.