Berserker's Iron Mace

Berserker's Iron Mace sits on the table like a reluctant relic of a long war. The head is a heavy, iron hemisphere, hammered into a brutal bloom of facets; edges are chipped from years of use, and a faint red patina glints along the rim where copper alloy shows through. The shaft is stout oak wrapped in cracked leather, the bands of brass curling like thorned vines around the grip, a lion's jaw carved near the pommel. On the side, a discreet sigil—the berserker's howl—feels almost warm to the touch, as if the weapon remembers every scream it accompanied. It is a piece born of iron and oath, said in hushed tavern whispers to have been tempered in the fire of a siege and then blessed by a veteran smith who swore the blade would never tire. Pull it from its sheath, and the weight settles into your palm with a promise and a threat. In combat it trades snap for surge: a mace can punish heavily armored bruisers and open a breath of wind to quick footwork. It favors blunt, crushing strikes that crack shields and loosen resolve. Players who lean into the Berserker's ethos—cards on the frontline, a build that rewards reckless momentum—find its rhythm, a tempo that makes every swing feel louder in the chaos. Its wounding aspiration matches frontline skirmishes: it lands a heavy hit and keeps pressure, letting companions weave their damage while you hold the line. Lorekeepers whisper that the weapon remembers its owner’s anger, channelling it into a steady, devastating toll rather than a flurry of flashes. For adventurers who crave narrative as much as numbers, each stroke reminds them of the venerated berserker who once carried it into a broken town and never bowed to fear. Beyond the battlefield, its value circulates through the open markets, where traders trade myths and metal. In Divinity's Reach or Lion's Arch—wherever the caravan routes braid the city walls—the name Berserker's Iron Mace still draws curious eyes. A fair week might see it priced in the Saddlebag Exchange at roughly 12 to 18 gold in decent condition; the price tag isn't rigid, and the haggle is as much a test of character as the weapon's weight. The stallholder with a scarred knuckles will recount a tale of the mace’s hero who led a doomed defense with nothing but this hammer and a stubborn grin. The buyer, listening, imagines their own deeds—the battles they'll weather, the enemies they'll dismay. The currency flows not just as coin but as stories, as promises of glory that a blade can carry when it is chosen by a warrior who believes in its lore. Ultimately, the Berserker's Iron Mace endures as more than metal and wood. It is a conduit for a particular kind of courage—one that hears the war drums and steps forward anyway. And when the market closes and the city quiets, someone with wind in their lungs swings it again, letting the old bell of metal tell a new story about a world that still prizes boldness, even in the quiet hours after the lanterns fade.