Berserker's Ogre Scimitar

Berserker's Ogre Scimitar catches the lamplight and seems to drink it in, the blade a heavy crescent of dark steel etched with red-flecked runes that spiral along the fuller like embers curling in ash. The grip is wrapped in tanned ogre-hide, the seams cracked with age, the guard broad and blunt as if carved from a single chunk of black stone. A dull patina gnaws at the edge, not from rust but from the stories it has absorbed: skirmishes, long marches, the steady thud of ogre drums. In tavern whispers, it's said the blade hung at the belt of a rampaging ogre warlord named Ghalash, whose rage could flatten tents and bend the very horizon; when he finally fell, the weapon was stripped and passed along through a hundred hands, each adding a notch of memory until it rested in a collector's satchel and then a smith's warm forge. In gameplay, it doesn't merely cut; it makes the world tilt toward aggression. Swinging it feels like tipping a first domino of chaos—the blade bites through leather, leathers, and light armor with a satisfying shudder, then the momentum keeps going. Its balance favors decisive, heavy strikes, and when paired with a berserker's creed, it becomes a catalyst for ferocity: every successful hit nudges the user closer to the moment when their own heart seems to beat with the enemy's rhythm. The mark on the blade glows faintly when fury rises, not as magic, but as a remembered oath: to press, to break, to endure, and then strike where others would recoil. For players, that translates into faster combos, stronger crits, and a tendency to draw fights deeper into the danger zone where a single piercing arc can end a stalemate. And the market, like a map of old routes, threads the story further. I listened to traders argue about the price while the market glow of Saddlebag Exchange hummed in the background: a listing here, a bid there, a chorus of sighs when demand surged and supply lagged behind. Someone spoke of finding it in a ruined outpost and paying a neat handful of silver; another warned that a single buyer could push the price toward gleaming gold as collectors and berserkers swarmed the stall. Prices ebb and flow with rumors, availability, and the gleam in a buyer's eye, and the Ogre Scimitar remains a measure of reputation as much as of metal. So it rests in the world, a blade that remembers wars and patient hours in a forge, waiting for the right shoulder to bear its weight again. When that moment comes, the Berserker's Ogre Scimitar will sing again, a brutal lullaby for those who listen. Until that moment, it sits in a padded crate pocked with oil stains and echoes, waiting for the next rider who can read the runes and choose the moment to draw it in triumph. In the end, what matters is not only the cut, but the story it carries into the next encounter.