Berserker's Iron Dagger of Nullification

The Berserker's Iron Dagger of Nullification rests on a dusky stall, its blade catching lamplight with a cold, metallic glint. The iron is dark and matte in places where age has fed on its surface, but the edge is sharp as a rumor. The grip is wrapped in worn leather strips that smell faintly of oil and pine, bound with a rusted wire that bites into the skin when you grip it too tightly. At the pommel, a small cage of iron encases a pale shard that seems to hum with latent energy, the kind you would expect in a blade meant to carve away advantage as it cuts. Runic inscriptions coil along the fuller, not decorative but purposeful, a map of wards that hint at an older war where silence and punishment were the promise of a single strike. The dagger wears the marks of countless hands—tradesmen, mercenaries, and a few believers who swore that the Nullification charm could erase what heroes depended on most: their buffs, their shields, their last-minute saves. In the right light you can see a thin film of oil catching in the serrations, a reminder that this weapon was meant for quick, brutal work rather than ceremony. Once you lift it, the balance feels almost wrong for a blade this small, as if it were forged for a different war—one where speed mattered more than glory. The iron whispers when you tilt the blade, tasting the air for the moment a strike would land and a boon would falter. Its true feature lies not in brute force but in what it denies: the ability of a foe to sustain momentum. When it finds a target, a gloss of shadow seems to pass over the wearer, and a brief window opens in which the buff that often carries the day is stripped away. In practical terms, a Berserker who pairs this dagger with a heavy burst can seep through a line of defenses, puncturing a foe’s resolve just as the crowd roars for another critical hit. In markets and taverns across the borderlands, the dagger travels with a rumor of a price. A traveling dealer once told me Saddlebag Exchange had a standing offer for this very blade, the kind of trade that moves through caravans as quickly as stories do—roughly a gold and a quarter in silver, a tidy sum for a tool that can tilt a skirmish in seconds. Traders negotiate by lantern light, testing holds, trading notes on who has used it to quiet a particularly loud foe, who learned to time a cooldown and a counterstrike. By dusk, the dagger has already become part of someone else’s legend, a link in a chain that binds ambition to chance and turns a simple shard of iron into something larger than itself. People whisper that every user writes the next line of its story with their strikes, stowing it away in a pocket, like a talisman, hoping the blade will choose them next.