Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun

Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun sits in a dusky display nook, its stock a single length of elder wood whose grain spirals like a river in flood, lacquered to a velvet depth that catches the lamplight and holds it. The barrel is a slender reed of brass, browned with age, with a carved guard that riffs in the crescent shape of a brewing tide. A harpoon head glints at the ready, iron tempered with a pale edge of runes—not a blade, but a promise. The butt bears a small, coiled emblem—an oak leaf wrapped around a thunderheart—suggesting a lineage of hunters who learned to ride the storm rather than wait for it to pass. The fabric wrap around the grip is patterned in a worn mosaic of sinew and hide, the texture giving a sure, almost living grip to the hand that wields it. It feels heavy with purpose and light with legends, as if the very wood remembers the first tide it cut. Lore threads into its form as deftly as the line that runs from trigger to harpoon head. Elder wood is whispered to be grown along the boundary where worlds meet—the old giants’ roots, the saplines of forgotten forests, the kind of material said to hold memory as surely as it holds shape. The Berserker’s mark, etched along the stock and breathing faintly with those ancient runes, ties the gun to a long, fevered line of warriors who fought not for glory alone but for a vow—to cut through fear, to pull their comrades back from the edge, to drive back the night with a shout that splits the air. When you cradle it, you can almost hear a chorus of battle cries braided with rivers, as if the weapon itself is telling you a story you are meant to finish. In gameplay, the Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun feels like an extension of that story. It’s a mid-to-long-range tool that rewards rhythm over brute force: you sight, you fire, you let the harpoon lash out and tether or stagger, prying control from a chaotic skirmish and handing momentum to you and your team. The harpoon’s reach creates space where there was none, pinning down fleeing enemies or pulling them into a line of fire. Its build invites aggression—pair it with crit-focused passes, with traits that reward bold, decisive plays, and you become a conductor within the melee, guiding waves of foes into well-timed traps and surgical finishes. The texture of the wood, the whine of the mechanism, and the cold bite of the steel all weave into the moment you let the shot go, a small narrative of risk and reward that feels lived in rather than learned. Market whispers carry the item as well as the wind. I learned of its price not in a statue-lit guildhall but at Saddlebag Exchange, where a lantern-lit stallkeeper tucked the gun into a cloth wrap and slid it across the counter with a knowing grin. The tag read something like a traveler’s tally—just under two gold, with a note that elder wood commands a currency of patience as much as weight. It’s a price that tells a story: the more you listen to the wood and the oath etched into the barrel, the more you understand why some legends cost what they do. Holding it, you’re not merely arming yourself; you’re stepping into a shared memory—the kind of memory that makes the river in your hand remember your name and your next move long before your feet touch the shore.