Berserker's Iron Axe of Serpent Slaying

The Berserker's Iron Axe of Serpent Slaying gleams with a tempered, almost sleepy heat, the iron surface bearing a mottled patina where years of rain and battle have kissed it. The blade is broad and blunt-edged, a hammer-forged surprise that flares into a silvered bite when you swing it, as if the metal remembers every serpent it has met and learned to bite back. Along the spine, runes are burned into the metal in a careful, almost stubborn pattern—glyphs of courage, of endurance, of the hunter who never tires. The haft is wrapped in weathered leather, darkened by oil and salt, with a carved serpent’s head at the pommel that seems to coil and uncoil with every breath. It feels heavy in the hand, but the weight is never a burden; it’s a promise—of momentum, of resolve, of a story you can step into. Lore threads braid into the present as you study the emblem on the guard: a coiled serpent pinned beneath a star, a mark etched by a smith who swore the weapon would drink serpent venom and spit it back. They spoke of a temple in the marsh where serpents swarmed like dark rain, and how the axe’s first true test came when the weapon severed a malignant coil that coiled around a village’s gateposts, saving the townsfolk from a creeping doom. Since then, it’s carried a double memory—the bite of steel against scales and the whistle of wind through snared pines as the hunter moves through serpentine lairs. The weapon seems to hum with a quiet history, as if every serpent slain leaves a small, metallic echo in the blade. In the field, it isn’t merely a tool; it’s a companion that shape-shifts with the day’s demands. In a tight corridor of brush and bracken, the axe is a catalyst for ferocity, growing with every strike, every surge of fury that gnaws at the wrists and spine. It’s built for those who ride the edge between restraint and rage, because against serpent kin the armor’s scaly sheen gives way to blunt, honest force. When a berserker channels their fury, the weapon seems to answer with brighter gleam and louder crack, shredding through leather and scale alike, turning a tight engagement into a dramatic, storm-wrought break. It doesn’t merely cut; it narrates a chase, a retreat, a sudden charge that writes the world anew with each impact. The market tug of such a blade is a thread you pull as well as a story you tell. I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange, where lantern light flickered over racks of glinting iron and barter-hushed conversations. A thin wind carried the scent of oil and rain as a merchant weighed the axe in copper scales, nodding at the serpent-head pommel as if acknowledging an old acquaintance. Prices shifted with the tides of serpent sightings and the day’s demand; one moment the blade would glow with a modest, almost prudent price, the next, it would rise—two or three gold brighter—when a caravan spoke of a nest near the coast. The Exchange’s ledger whispered in the rustle and clink of coins, and I watched a pair of buyers haggle with small smiles and careful lines spoken in that balanced, practiced tone that says: I know what this is worth, and I know what I am willing to offer. When you walk away with the Berserker's Iron Axe of Serpent Slaying in your pack, you’re not simply carrying a weapon. You’re bearing a relic of hunts past and a tool for the hunts ahead, a blade that remembers, a blade that roars, and a blade that, for a moment, makes the world bend toward the next tale you’ll tell.