Berserker's Iron Axe of Demon Summoning

Berserker's Iron Axe of Demon Summoning rests on the table beside the campfire, a brutal sculpture catching lamplight with a slow lurch of metallic gleam. The head is broad and heavy, forged from a dark iron that seems to drink light, its edge serrated with tiny, deliberate notches that look almost carved by a claw. The haft is wrapped in weathered leather, stained with brown age and something a little red in the dim, the grain of the wood visible where the polish has worn away. Along the cheek of the blade, runes coil in a coil of copper and blackened steel, like smoke frozen in iron. The pommel bears the sigil of a horned demon, a marker that this weapon does not simply cut; it calls. In lore it is said to be tempered with the breath of a demon-summoner's oath, passed from hand to hand among berserkers who walked the line between control and fury. The axe seems to breathe when you lift it, a warm tremor that travels along the blade’s spine as if something beneath the iron wakes. When the user raises it high and shouts the name of a pact, a pale echo of a demon materializes as a gust of heat and shadow, scattering enemies with a roar that shakes the bones. It demands rhythm: the swing, the howl, the pause, a cycle that mirrors a heart in battle. The longer you hold your composure, the more the demon’s echo becomes a partner rather than a threat. In practice, players tell different stories of the demon’s alignment: some use the summons to break a choke of foes and then ride the momentum of their own berserk surge. Others claim it is a trap for the careless—an invitation to live in a world where the line between weapon and warded relic blurs. The axe does not merely cut; it punctures gloom, opens a momentary breach where the battle’s tempo leans toward reckless courage. If you learned to listen to the demon’s whisper without succumbing to its urge, you could thread the fight’s rhythm into a single, brutal sentence—one strong stroke that becomes a doorway, a shield, and a beacon all at once. I found it, finally, at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders swap tales as much as blades. The stall’s owner laid the axe on the counter, letting the runes dance in the firelight, and we spoke in hushed tones about the price—the kind of price that's never fixed but measured in risk, rarity, and the fear of what you awaken. The marked tag swung between two gold and a coil of silver, more by the day, the market breathing with scarcity. The old man insisted on a fair trade, reminding me that this weapon is not merely a tool but a history you walk with. Walking away, I felt the weight of both metal and rumor—an instrument that could shape a frontier’s fate or haunt the traveler who hears its demon at dusk.