Berserker's Iron Sword of Agony

Berserker's Iron Sword of Agony glows with a brutal light, the blade catching torchlight and turning it to pale sparks. Its iron surface is broad, with a fuller that runs most of the length like a river. The edge bears a faint bite—no ornament, just a reminder that the weapon has learned to survive on the front line. The crossguard fans out in a snarling curve, meant to catch cloth and fingers when momentum carries you forward, while the grip is wrapped in worn leather. Along the spine, Agony is etched in a script that seems to weep toward the light, a signature of its history. Small rivets glint in the curve of the hilt, and beneath the leather a few runes pulse, as if the forge breathed oath into iron. To hold it is to hear a drumbeat, a promise that the blade will answer the moment you break your stance. It feels heavier than expected, as if the weapon has absorbed the weight of every clash and shield buckled under its edge. Drawn, the sword hums with a low throng that travels up your forearm and into your ribs—an invitation and a warning. In firelight or moonlight, the metal seems to catch a shade of crimson, not from pigment but from memory: the clatter of armor, the flash of a spear, and a warrior's twist. The Agony’s aura isn’t stagecraft; it’s heritage—the berserker’s oath made fluent in steel and the echoes of a siege that refused to end. In combat, the sword insists on a tempo—decisive arcs rather than cautious stabs. It favors a forward stance and a willingness to meet the foe head-on, rewarding timing that taps into the wielder’s fury without letting it spiral away. Every swing gathers momentum, every impact rings with the memory of wars, and the blade seems to drink in the fear of those it cuts through. Power, vigor, and ferocious precision come to life when the user learns to ride the blade’s heartbeat. The weapon doesn’t merely slice; it narrates the fight, turning each encounter into a chapter in a saga about courage and a blade that refuses to forget the dead who shaped it. Markets in border towns whisper its name, but not all can afford its history. I paused at a dusty stall and asked the price; the vendor gestured toward Saddlebag Exchange, where listings drift like coins across parchment. There, the Berserker’s Iron Sword of Agony appeared with a price rooted in gold, a tag that could tempt a veteran or lure a less careful buyer into risk. The story behind the price mattered more: a weapon forged in mania and memory, traded not just for coin but for passage into a lineage of battles the buyer would carry forward. As dusk settles, the sword is more than steel. It is a compass for those marching with a heavy past. Wielders balance hunger with restraint, letting the Agony speak only when the moment is right, and honoring voices who tempered it.