Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun

Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun gleams under the shop lamp, its stock carved from a single, weather-dark piece of elder wood, the grain running like river currents. The barrel curves with a confident arc, its muzzle a slender silver crescent that catches the light and holds it. The grip is wrapped in worn sinew and lacquered leather, smooth from years of handling, while a line of ash-gray runes crawls along the receiver, barely legible but never-quiet in their history. The weapon wears the scent of resin and rain, a living thing that has learned the patience of wood and the bite of steel. It sits there with a quiet dignity, as if ready to be drawn into a storm the moment someone whispers its name. Legends insist the elder wood came from the heart of a forest that refused to die, saved by a berserker who learned to bargain with wind and water. They say the man carved the weapon in a fever of necessity, stitching the harpoon barrel with a craftsman’s care and binding the line with a tang of courage. The gun became his signature tool, not merely for hunting but for guiding others through chaos: a tether to pull a comrade from danger, a hinge to swing a foe out of formation, a swift reminder that aggression can be disciplined. Over time the Berserker’s mark—an etched pattern that looks almost like a storm—softly radiates from the grain, as if the wood remembers the battles it saw and the oaths that bound them together. It’s a relic that answers with brutal efficiency when the moment demands it, yet chooses its moments with the restraint one would expect from wood that has weathered rivers and rain. In the hands of a practiced bearer, the Harpoon Gun feels like a conversation between craft and instinct. Its primary fire hurls a heavy harpoon with a straight, true trajectory, slicing through armor and shrugging off light shields. The secondary feature is a tether that can snag a target or fuse the user to the terrain in a controlled moment of strategy—pulling an enemy from cover, pinning a skirmisher against a cliff, or reeling in a stricken ally to safety. It isn’t about sheer force alone; it’s about tempo—the rhythm of a surge, a pause, and a deliberate repositioning that unsettles foes and steadies friends. Wielders who lean into its heritage tend to blend ferocity with measured patience, turning a single shot into a turning point in the tide of battle. I caught a glimpse of it again at Saddlebag Exchange, its price whispered between the clink of coins and the soft rasp of nets. The vendor’s scale tipped with the weight of history, the elder wood’s scent curling through the air as if the grove itself breathed through the stall. The price tag read with rough honesty, a sum that reflected both the weapon’s rarity and its ready-made legend: a few gold, a handful of silver, negotiable with a trader’s favor owed or a tale shared about storms survived. Even the bargaining felt like part of a larger voyage—the kind of trade that binds shipwrights to river navigators, scouts to scholars, and a lone hunter to a village that remembers every harpoon thrown in anger and mercy alike. So the Berserker's Elder Wood Harpoon Gun remains more than metal and wood. It is a ledger of journeys—of rivers crossed, cliffs scaled, and comrades saved or risked in the name of a shared, stubborn courage. A weapon that asks to be used with intent, remembered for its lineage, and trusted as a partner when the world sharpens its teeth.