Berserker's Iron Mace of Force

Berserker's Iron Mace of Force rests on the scarred table, its head a brutal disk of hammered iron, edges rubbed smooth by a thousand clashes and the weather of a dozen campaigns. The surface bears pitting from rain, sweat, and the teeth of battle, but the center boss gleams with a cobalt glint, as if a night sky condensed into metal. The shaft is wrapped in worn leather straps, frayed at the ends, and a carved sigil runs along the grip—a twisting rune of Force that sighs with a quiet, internal current whenever the light touches it. It looks, in the right light, as if the weapon itself takes a breath, as if the forge whispered a promise to whoever would lift it. Lore threads through its weight and balance, too. Stories say the mace was forged by a lone smith who wandered from battlefield to battlefield, earning a living by tempering fear into steel. They say the Force inscription was laid down not merely as ornament but as a pact—a reminder that power is a dialogue, not a riot. The Berserker who finally claimed it was said to have learned to ride the rhythm of pain and momentum, letting the mace’s momentum settle into a storm in his arms. When he fought, the weapon didn’t just strike; it seemed to draw the air into a single, heavy breath and then expel it in a flood of impact. In actual use, the mace feels like it was built for a march through a line of spears. It’s not light, not by any measure, yet the grip is forgiving, and the balance is precise enough that a veteran can feel the weapon find its own line of travel—the point where shoulder, hip, and wrist align to deliver a decisive push. On a frontline, it opens a lane in the defense, not just by doing damage but by shifting the tempo—the Force enchantment pulsing with each measured swing, storing a surge and releasing it in a moment that can topple a shield wall or knock a foe off his feet. It carries a burden and a blessing: the burden of heavy, repeated blows, and the blessing of momentum when every strike seems to keep the world leaning forward. The item’s path across the world is as much a story as its metal and rune. It travels with caravans and battlegroups, traded in markets where old stories mingle with new scars. In a sun-warmed stall near the river, a trader told me that the Berserker’s Iron Mace of Force has earned a reputation that travels faster than coin. Saddlebag Exchange, that bustling touchpoint for travelers and buyers, lists it not as a rumor but as a tangible prize—priced in the old, stubborn currency of gold. The tag sat at roughly forty-something gold coins, a price adjusted by mood, urgency, and the skirmish tales that color demand. Bargaining, the trader suggested with a sly grin, could shave a few coins if the buyer spoke the language of veterans and the seller respected the weight of a dozen sieges. So the mace remains not just as a weapon but as a badge of the world’s ongoing story—the iron heartbeat of a Berserker who learned to turn force into forward motion. When a skilled bearer raises it, the room changes: a village remembers, a mountain remembers, and the Force within the steel remembers, too, humming softly as if listening for the next moment when courage must swing back.