Berserker's Iron Dagger of Hobbling

Berserker's Iron Dagger of Hobbling catches the firelight with a stubborn gleam, its blade a pewter-gray slab chipped along the edge to look both ancient and hungry. The steel bears a hammered texture, each facet catching a glint like a shed-forge star, and a fine fuller runs a black thread of shadow along its spine. The handle is wrapped in worn leather, scarred from a dozen nights of travel, and the grip feels both cold and reassuring in the palm, as if the weapon has learned your rhythm before you learned its. Carved along the crossguard are twin serpents in motion, their mouths meeting at the pommel where a small iron ring dangles—perhaps a memory tethered to the weapon, perhaps a warning not to trust its temper. lore threads wind through the blade as surely as the hairline cracks in its steel: a weapon forged for Berserkers who turned from raw frenzy to calculated, brutal mercy, tempered in blood and bound to the old paths that run between broken camps and ruined banners. When you lift it, you can feel the weight of old campaigns in the balance, as if the dagger itself remembers every last skirmish where it sang through air and struck a pause into the heat of battle. Its edge, though dulled by time, carries a whisper of purpose—an inscription in rune-spirits along the tang that hints at a vow to hobble the stride of a foe as surely as it sinks the blade. In the hands of a practiced draw, this is not merely a weapon but a tool of progression: a quick, intimate contact that slows or stumbles a target just enough to open a window for a follow-up, to break a shield-wall, or to carve a path through retreating crowds. The dagger’s true gift lies in its restraint—the idea that power can be decisive without turning the world into chaos. It is the instrument of a hunter who knows when to strike and when to let opportunity drift by—yet when it does strike, it does so with a cautionary roar that unsettles even seasoned foes. In the bustling markets of the world, its rarity makes it an earnest temptation. It isn’t the kind of gleam you find on a common street table; it speaks to a lineage, to a lineage of huntsmen who learned to tip the odds by keeping a foe tethered to the moment of contact. The price, whispered among vendors and buyers alike, travels through the hallways of trade routes and taverns, landing in the ledger of a broker named at Saddlebag Exchange who maps demand with careful arithmetic and a keen ear for the pulse of danger. The exchange floor becomes a stage where the dagger’s history is weighed against a buyer’s need: a tool for survival, a token of respect, a reminder that every great confrontation begins when a weapon remembers its past and decides to move again. So the Berserker’s Iron Dagger of Hobbling remains more than metal and leather. It’s a story pressed into steel, a short course in patience, and a calculated breath before the sting—a weapon that asks its wielder to honor the moment between strike and consequence.