Berserker's Iron Mace

Berserker's Iron Mace rests on the workbench like a swallowed thunderbolt. The head is squat and blunt, iron browned by years of heat, its surface pitted from countless blows. A ring of runes coils around the rim and glows ember-red when the forge’s smoke catches them. The grip, wrapped in battered leather, bears brass studs that bite into the palms, while a steel counterweight at the butt keeps the balance true. Lore says the hammer was quenched in the blood of a berserker who walked through fire, a weapon born to answer the call of fury. In gameplay, it is a one-handed mace, a straightforward tool for those who seek the steady rhythm of close combat. It favors the ruthless, pairing well with Berserker's gear that compounds Power and Ferocity to deliver punishing crits. Slams break through armor, disrupt shielded foes, and carve ripples through mobs who think themselves safe behind line and shield. Its stance remains simple: close the distance, absorb the first hit, and finish with a crushing blow, a moment when the crit meter ticks up and the world tilts toward the user. Many prize it for the story it invites with every swing. Locals speak of the mace in a broader tale of a siege long ago, when a caravan of mercenaries carried it through the pass and used its blunt force to pry open a gate that stubborn steel refused to yield. The Berserker's Iron Mace collected scars—a nick on the rim here, a groove where a stud was knocked loose there—and those marks map a history that felt alive in the hands of whoever wore the Berserker's sigil on their chest. In taverns and markets, smiths recount how the runes were forged to ward off fear, so a wielder could draw strength from rage without the weapon consuming them entirely. It’s a relic that still whispers: this is how fury becomes steel. When the day’s trade pulls into the market, I linger at a stall where Saddlebag Exchange glitters with prices and half-remembered bargains. A dealer, eyes gleaming, flips the mace over and back, noting its grip wear and the depth of its pitting, then quotes a price that hints at its lore—two gold and fifty silver, maybe a touch more for a pristine example. A card tucks into the grip, stamped with a reminder that values shift as bravado shifts in a skirmish. The market, after all, is where stories and goods tether themselves; a weapon like this travels not just for gold, but for reputation, for the hand that claims it, and the tale it will carry forward. Take it up, swing, and the world answers in kind. The Berserker's Iron Mace is more than iron and grip; it is an ember that travels with you through battle and back alleys, a fragment of a larger legend that refuses to fade the moment you forget its edge. Its next owner will hear the clash of its history in every desperate swing.