Berserker's Iron Axe

Berserker's Iron Axe sits on a wooden counter, the kind that has soaked up a hundred rainstorms and still bears a shine. Its head is a heavy, faulted block of iron, satin-smooth along the edge where the smith’s temper lingered just long enough to temper cruelty into steel. The blade’s face catches the light with a quiet, ruthless gleam, as if it’s made to see you—and decide you’re not the one it’ll tolerate. The haft is wrapped in dark, oil-darkened leather, each wrap a careful spiral that’s worn smooth by years of grip. Small rivets glint like teeth along the midsection, and a narrow strip of crimson cloth threads its way through the leather, a tiny banner that once signaled a rallying cry. On the spine of the axe, runes have been burned into the iron, not legible at a casual glance, but unmistakable to a tradesman who’s seen a dozen Berserker sigils in his lifetime. It feels heavy in the hand, both promise and burden, as if it remembers every shout and every misstep of the man who carried it before. Lore threads through its weighty presence. Locals tell of a old warband that carved its name onto this blade in the heat of a desperate siege, when the river would not bend and the city walls trembled with the march of enemies. They say the iron was tempered in a forge tended by a ferryman who spoke to storms, and that the axe carried not just metal but the frenetic courage of those who chose to charge when retreat would have been easier. When the blade finds a target, it’s said to awaken a fierce whisper in the wielder—an unspoken pact to press on, to test limits, to touch the edge of frenzy and ride it without breaking. Whether you believe the tale or not, the axe holds a kind of public memory: a weapon that has learned the sound of a crowd’s breath, and used it to sharpen its own hunger. In practice, it’s a weapon that demands a certain tempo. In the right hands, Berserker's Iron Axe bites out fast, two or three clean arcs that punch through soft armor and leave a track of momentum in its wake. It suits builds that chase ferocity, that want high impact in close, a dagger’s distance closed with a sweeping swing. People speak of it as a blade for those who don’t shy from the moment when the fight grows loud and close, when a single swing can shift the rhythm of a skirmish. The eyes of a careful navigator might see how it pairs with ferocity-focused traits, how it rewards aggressive positioning and the stubborn courage to stay on the enemy’s flank even as the world tilts. I wander the market floor and drift toward the Saddlebag Exchange, where a chalkboard tag lists the blade as a rare find, priced at three gold and twenty-five silver. The words are careful, the line between desire and practicality clear, and the seller’s voice softens the moment with a joke about the wind in the sails of a long journey home. The price is more than steel; it’s a story, a vow, a reminder that in this world every weapon is a memory pressed into wood and iron, a chapter in a larger, restless narrative that moves with market bells and the stride of passing caravans.