Berserker's Iron Dagger of Bloodlust

Berserker's Iron Dagger of Bloodlust gleams with a cold, iron sheen, its blade etched with runic crimson sigils that seem to drip into the fuller. The steel wears a minute patina from countless brushes with blood and rain, catching light with a hungry, whetted gleam. The leather-wrapped grip is worn smooth by years of quick, practiced draws, and the guard curls like two fanged jaws ready to bite. The pommel bears a hammered sigil—a horned berserker’s crest—that speaks of a clan that believed battle could reshape fate as surely as iron reshapes a foe. Legends whisper that it was forged in a foundry that fed its flames with old war songs, tempered by a smith who had eaten the dust of many campaigns and learned to kiss violence with discipline. The Bloodlust enchantment is said to drink at the edge of bloodied swords, waking whenever the wielder’s fervor peaks and the world narrows to target and time. In those moments the runes along the blade flare a dull, feverish red, and the dagger seems to hum with a pulse that matches the wearer’s heartbeat. It is not a weapon for patient endurance, but a blade that thrives in the threshold between breath and blow, between hesitation and frenzy. In practical terms, the dagger is a conduit for close-quarters chaos. It rewards rapid hands and reckless tempo, chaining swift stabs into a chorus of puncturing, slashing, and striking against a single target or a pair of distracted foes. When Bloodlust surges—often as the wielder drops toward the edge of a fight—the weapon appears to lend a savage lift: a surge of speed, a tightening in the arms, and a momentary edge in accuracy that can topple a shielded foe before they can reset. It’s the sort of tool that makes sense in skirmishes where every breath could determine a life, where a lone dagger can carve a path through armor and doubt alike. For those who study its rhythm, the blade becomes less a weapon and more a partner in pursuit—one that counsels brutal efficiency and then rewards risk with a visible heartbeat of vitality. The dagger’s journey is as much a story as its edge. A merchant’s tale speaks of a quiet night on a dockside quay, where a storm rolled in like a dark curtain and a captain traded a cache of rare timbers for tales and trinkets. The Bloodlust dagger found a place among a cargo of stories at Saddlebag Exchange, nestled between a cracked map and a gleaming garnet dagger, its tag catching the lamplight. There the price was spoken in cautious tones—roughly in the mid-to-upper gold range, fluctuating with the day’s mood and what other buyers crave. Some patrons barter lore for lore, offering fragments of old war songs or scribbled blueprints. Others come ready with chests full of worn coins, hoping to own a blade that keeps the past’s fury alive in the present. So the Berserker’s Iron Dagger of Bloodlust survives not merely as metal, but as a living rumor—carved through the hands of wanderers and duelists, whispered in the corridors of markets, and kept alive by the hands that wield it when the night calls for a reckoning.