Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of the Hydromancer

The Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of the Hydromancer rests on a damp, worn counter, its pale shaft curved like a river carved into bone-white wood. The grip fits a warrior’s hand with surprising gentleness, rounded and smooth from years of grasp and the polish of rain-soaked travels. Its body is carved from a soft wood that still holds the grain’s warmth, a deliberate choice that makes the weapon feel alive in the palm—almost as if the tree itself remembers the storms it weathered. Along the length, serpentine inlays trace a pale blue thread through the grain, miniature channels that catch light and shimmer with a pale, watery glow when the room breathes with wind or candle smoke. The head is a globe of glass the color of a frost-touched pool, etched with a shoreline of runes and a ring of bronze filigree that catches lamplight and sends a hush of tiny ripples through the air whenever a hand draws near. It smells faintly of cedar, salt, and the musk of old harbor markets, a scent that makes you think of sails flapping at dawn and a trader’s grin. Lore clings to this scepter like fog to a quay. They say it was forged for a berserker who learned to hear the tides whispering around his feet, tempering his fury with patient water magic until the two forces became a single, controlled rush. The soft wood, chosen for its resilience when struck or tossed by careless hands, bends rather than snaps, a symbolic fit for a weapon meant to channel raw energy into the ebb and flow of a shoreline war. Those who have held it speak of a faint current that travels up the blade when the user shifts guilefully from charge to dodge, a sign that the hydromancer within is waking, ready to lend a hand to any storm. In the hands of a seasoned fighter, the scepter does more than swing; it narrates a scene. A simple strike can splash a pale arc of water that blankets a foe, slow their pace with a slick sheen, or scatter droplets that bloom into a veil of mist, blurring the vision of enemies while guiding allies through the spray of light and sound. It feels less like a weapon and more like a companion that whispers, “Hold fast; the tide will turn.” In moments of pressure, the hydromancer’s edge reveals itself as precise discipline: control of momentum, a quick flood of energy redirected, and the ability to convert fury into a cleansing wash that renews steadiness in the chaos of combat. Walk into the harbor lanes at dusk, and you’ll hear the whispers of those who’ve traded for it. The price, tucked into a rough parchment by a stall, often moves with the weather—some days a coin or two less, others a brighter sum—because the Saddlebag Exchange thrives on bargaining as much as on beauty. A buyer might offer a pair of rare shells and a mounted compass, or trade two well-worn relics and a promise of future trade routes. It is not merely a purchase but a passage—a way to weave this scepter into a larger story of tides turned, battles weathered, and a world where fury can ride the crest of water rather than crash against it.