Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Earth

Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Earth rests on a folded leather cloth, its surface catching lamplight with a gentle, breathing glow. The shaft is pale wood, the grain visible as fine lines that ripple when you tilt the weapon. The head, darker and sculpted, bears thin copper inlays that hint at armor and age. A runic line climbs the length, not loud, but present, like rain on a shield. The texture invites the touch: smooth as a well-worn flute, yet resilient, as if the wood remembered every strike and learned to soften the blow for the wielder’s grip. Its scent—resinous, rain-wet wood—clings to memory long after you lay it down. This scepter bears the badge of a Berserker's oath, born in the rain-washed trees of the old Rainwood, where the earth itself keeps a quiet, stubborn memory of battles long past. A smith who listened to the ground carved the scepter, coaxing the timber to bend rather than snap, letting the wood pulse softly in time with a warrior’s breath. The runes speak in a language of cracks and sap: a reminder that power, when tied to the earth, can be felt as a tremor that travels through your entire arm. In gameplay terms, the Soft Wood Scepter of Earth anchors more than the hands that wield it. It channels the stubborn calm of stone and soil into bursts of earth magic that can tether a skirmish to a single moment. When the earth sigil blooms, foes stumble, give ground, and reveal openings for a precise strike. When a shield is needed, a warm, amber glow fans outward, turning incoming blows aside and buying precious seconds for allies to reposition. The weapon’s heart lies in its dual purpose: to press forward with ferocity, and to steady the advance when chaos climbs the hill. The scepter’s presence signals a larger story about the land reclaiming itself through those who listen. Veterans speak of battles where the earth rose in and out beneath their feet, leaving a scar that the scepter seems to cradle in its soft wood. It is a link between memory and action—the weight you carry into a fight, the soil you draw strength from, the pact you renew with every swing. Market stories thread the narrative through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where curious curio seekers and seasoned traders meet. The price for a piece like this shivers with demand, sliding along the scales as caravans roll in and out. The merchant I spoke with named a price that landed at roughly 2 gold and 60 silver, a fair mark for a weapon that feels alive in your hands. It was a negotiation washed in the scent of resin and rain, the kind of moment that makes a buyer suddenly feel part of a longer tale—one that ends, for now, with a thank-you nod and a bag half-filled with bright odds and ends. So the scepter stays in the world, waiting for a new rider to listen to the timber’s quiet heartbeat, and to let the earth speak through the strike that follows.