Berserker's Mithril Mace

Berserker's Mithril Mace rests on a weathered wooden table, its head a broad disk hammered from pale mithril that seems to drink the lamplight and spit it back in cool, silvery sparks. The rim bears a row of shallow notches—each a memory of a strike delivered under a late-night moon. A ring of darker metal runs around the center like a belay coil, where runes pulse faintly, as if the metal remembers orders shouted in battle. The haft is a resin-dark wood, wrapped in braided leather that has darkened with sweat and travel, and at the end a copper cap that bears a chiselled berserker’s sigil—a snarling wolf caught in a moment of furious charge. Legends say it was tempered by a berserker of the old guard, the kind whose shouts could bend a line of soldiers into panic with a single breath. Some say it was forged in a dwarven forge where mithril is worked with a silence that sounds like snowfall. Others insist it chose its master, sliding into the hands of a hero who would learn to balance fury with discipline. In the field, the mace’s gleam seems almost to glow brighter when the user’s vitality sinks low, as if the metal is feeding on the adrenaline around it. In practice, the Berserker's Mithril Mace is not merely a pretty weapon; it is a statement on the front lines. One-handed maces deliver quick bursts and reliable block-breaking, while Berserker's stats push raw damage—Power for hits, Precision to find a flank, and Ferocity to maximize crits. Warriors and guardians who lean into aggression reach for it not only for numbers but for the story: each swing is a line spoken aloud, a vow to risk it all for a decisive moment. In the heat of a siege, the runes' pulse helps the wielder stay focused, the breath held long enough to land that ferocious hit remembered as a turning point. Prices flow like tides through the Saddlebag Exchange stalls that sit where traders drift between the docks and the markets. A Berserker's Mithril Mace, with its storied glow and roll of perfect ferocity, appears and disappears as quickly as a rumor, traded by pen-stainers and adventurers who barter for the next hot roll or a tested favorite. A buyer may pay in gold for a blade that speaks of fearsome deeds, or barter with rare crafting materials carried from distant caravans. The seller, meanwhile, keeps the memory of its battles alive, swaying between patience and the thrill of a good deal. In that market, the myth and the metal meet, and the mace becomes less a tool than a companion on the long walk back from yet another trail of victory and fatigue. Collectors and veterans say its glow deepens when you recall a hard-won stand, and the inscription seems to murmur a veteran's name as the crowd roars.