Rampager's Iron Mace of Water

Rampager's Iron Mace of Water rests on a damp counter, its iron head gleaming with a bluish patina that looks like a winter tide trapped in metal. The faces are blunt and squared, each strike etched with the telltale signs of a forge that fought the sea itself—tiny pitting where brine remembered to bite, and a shallow groove running along the edge that catches light and directs the eye toward a glassy center. In that center sits a swirl of pale blue, a pool of mineral and memory sealed beneath a thin sheet of crystal—as if a river had decided to linger inside the weapon rather than rush past the shore. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched in crisscross patterns that whisper of old camps and longer marches, and the butt cap bears a carved wave crest, a quiet reminder that every swing is meant to bend water toward a willful purpose. It feels heavy with history and light with possibility, as if the mace carries a current that wants to be released in the right moment. The lore around it travels in the mouths of riverbank scouts and market-talking tradesfolk. Kismet-smiths of the Ebbshore forged this piece for a Rampager’s lodge that pledged to guard the inland rivers as faithfully as the coast guards the harbor. They poured not just iron and time into it, but the memory of floods survived and villages rebuilt—each strike a nod to those who steadied a drowning town when the flood gates trembled. The blue core, some say, holds sea-salt that never fully leaves the skin of the earth, a reminder that water can both quench and threaten. When the mace is swung, witnesses swear they hear it hum with the cadence of tide clocks, a sound that makes even seasoned veterans pause before the next clash, as though the war itself might adjust its tempo to accommodate this weapon’s rhythm. In practical terms, it is a tool built for control as much as power. Its blows are clean and decisive, capable of cracking shield and bone with a single, precise arc. The Rampager’s lineage it embodies emphasizes bold, aggressive strikes, but the water motif softens the edge just enough to lend survivability in a frontline brawl: a moment’s breath, a careful follow-through, and the battlefield seems to tilt toward the wielder as if a current has found a path through the chaos. Veterans speak of its utility in skirmishes where terrain matters—doorways narrowed, choke points pressed, gold and iron meeting in a rain of sparks. It is not merely a weapon but a narrative device in combat: when the tide turns, this mace seems to encourage the wielder to push, to ride the crest of momentum until a larger story can be written in the dust of the arena. I wandered through the stalls after a morning patrol, the rain still clinging to my coat, and wondered about the market’s memory for such things. Saddlebag Exchange offered what felt like a whisper of a price—gold earned through patience and a few choice barters—enough for a buyer to cradle the weapon as an heirloom rather than a mere tool. A veteran trader spoke of buyers who chase these maces not only for the stats but for the tale they carry, a history that keeps pace with the current of any river-town saga. The Rampager’s Iron Mace of Water isn’t simply equipped; it is co-authored with the river, a companion in both triumph and tide.