Berserker's Orichalcum Imbued Inscription

Berserker's Orichalcum Imbued Inscription gleams in the candlelight, a heavy, rectangular shard of Orichalcum whose facets catch every flutter of flame and cast a thousand tiny rainbows across the bench. Its surface is cool and smooth, yet the grain under the polish tells a story—hammers meeting metal in a long-remembered rhythm, a forge’s breath trapped in the alloy. Around its edges, the metal is beveled with meticulous care, worn at the corners from hands that have tested it in the grit of a hundred skirmishes. The front bears an intricate montage of angular runes, lines etched so finely they feel almost braided into the metal, converging on a crimson sigil that glows with a quiet, heartbeat-like pulse when the wearer grows heated with combat. On the back, a microcosm of memory is carved in shallow relief: the name of a storm-cobbled war-band, inked in a script that echoes in the bone, and a small dragon’s head crowned with sparks, as if the creature itself leapt from the page to bless the work. In the forge-touched lore of its world, this inscription is more than a piece of metal and scripture; it is a pact. When pressed into a slot on armor or subtly mounted to a weapon, it binds to the bearer—an oath that rage can be steered as surely as a blade, that fury can be a steady current rather than a reckless downpour. In practical terms, it augments ferocity and precision, sharpening the wielder’s reflexes as battle intensifies. A berserker who wears it finds their strikes bending the air with a sharper edge, their critical hits falling with a cadence that feels almost musical, as if the sigil were guiding the tempo of the fight. It’s not merely damage; it’s a narrative hinge—a moment where the past of brutal duels and brutal smithing lends the bearer a chance to script a new chapter in real time. The item’s presence ripples beyond the square of combat into the market’s dusty glow. It is a rumor made tangible, a story merchants swirl as they weigh metal against memory. In a bustling stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where leather sacks creak with the weight of coins and traded work, the inscription is priced not merely by weight but by the courage of the buyer who would risk it in a duel or a desperate chase through a twisting night. A seasoned trader will tell you that the piece is worth a fair share of silver, perhaps a handful of trade goods, with the value buoyed by the legend of the berserker’s path and the gleam of orichalcum that never seems to dull. For a collector or a frontline fighter with coin to burn, it’s a temptation, a bright needle in a market’s haystack. And so the inscription moves through the world like a quiet flame: not a weapon on its own, but a key that unlocks a particular kind of story. Every time it is pressed into a slot, a new line is written, and the wearer steps into the role of storyteller and steel alike, their blade singing a line of fate that the forge itself would recognize.