Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony

Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony gleams under the lamp, its pale shaft a whisper of grain that runs like a river frozen in time. The wood is soft to the touch, yet astonishingly durable, as if it holds the memory of every brace, charge, and retreat in its fibers. The head is a half-moon of hammered brass, rimmed with a ring of tiny sigils that glow a dull crimson when danger draws near. A taut strip of leather loops the base, and a single amber bead settles in a carved notch, catching the light with a patient, almost disappointed gleam. The whole thing smells faintly of rain and resin, a scent that seems to shift with the wielder’s mood, from sweet to feral. Carved by a berserker smith whose temper outpaced the hammer, the scepter carries a lore as old as the keep's walls: agony distilled into purpose, a weapon that feeds on the pain it inflicts. It is said the wood softened to cradle the flame within, so the scepter could flash a warning with a mere ripple of woodwork, then flare into a disciplined strike that gnaws at the foe's resolve. Wielders claim the sigils hum when they synchronize with a heart-rate rising toward frenzy; the amber bead flickers if a pact is broken or a vow kept. In battle, the scepter isn't merely a tool of offense; it amplifies the wielder's fury, turning precision into rapture and hesitation into ruin. In practical terms, the Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Agony is a conduit for condition discipline and for channeling adrenaline into battlefield tempo. It can grant a temporary increase to ferocity, sharpen critical hits, and apply a stack of agony to enemies the moment a strike lands. For a blade-wielder or spell-slinger who moves through close quarters, it becomes a bridge between a ruthless charge and a controlled, devastating follow-up. The weapon's true voice emerges when paired with pressure—when a parry opens a gap, when a scream of pain travels from ally to opponent, and the scepter answers with a crack of timber and a bloom of crimson light. It belongs as much to the march as to the duel, a talisman that reminds its bearer that power is a conversation between body, wood, and will. On the road between market stalls and common rooms, I heard talk of Saddlebag Exchange, a place where such relics swap hands for coins and stories. A clerk described the scepter as a rare blend of artistry and utility, priced at roughly three gold with a small trade of gems tossed in to sweeten the deal. A veteran hunter paused to eye the amber bead, murmuring about how the bead's glow grows brighter when the wielder's heart outruns fear. In that moment, the scepter stopped being a tool and became a passport—carrying its owner through alleys of doubt into the bright heat of a frontline dawn. To own it is to carry a pulse of a world that forgets nothing, to walk with a weight that promises both pain and power.