Rampager's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust

Rampager's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust rests on the counter like a relic that has learned to breathe—soft wood, pale and warm to the touch, its grain winding in a slow, deliberate script. The shaft is slender yet solid, smooth from years of handling, with subtle ridges where knuckles once pressed into its spine. The head crowns the weapon with a crimson glass orb, held in place by sinuous bronze vines that glow faintly when the air thickens with adrenaline. Dark lacquer flares along the carved runes that trace the length of the wood, tiny marks that catch the light like drops of dried blood frozen in time. It feels alive in the palm, as if the scepter’s heartbeat travels through the root and pith into the bearer’s own pulse. Lore whispers that the Rampagers carved this staff from a tree that grew in a forgotten clearing, a tree said to drink air thick with battle-mirth and the scent of iron. The soft wood’s sweetness is stark against the weapon’s feral aura, a paradox that intrigues scholars and highway wanderers alike. Some say the Bloodlust within the scepter was bound not by craft alone but by a vow—an oath whispered into the grain by a hunter whose name time forgot. When danger rises, the orb seems to brighten, and the bronze vines creak as if leaning toward a speaker only the trained ear can hear. In taverns and markets, old hands tell stories of night fights where a lone wielder found strength by listening to the scepter’s quiet, insistent demand for forward motion, as if the wood itself urged courage into the bearer’s limbs. In practice, the scepter is more than a pretty facade; it carries the weight of a larger tale about how power travels through hands that have learned to listen. Those who choose it in skirmishes find their rhythm shift, a feral tempo that turns careful taps into decisive bursts. The Bloodlust sings through the wood when the wielder maximizes their grip and cadence, a cascade of quick strikes that can disrupt a crowd’s momentum or puncture a single foe with surgical precision. Its glow intensifies when conditions align—when concentration, resolve, and opportunity fuse—allowing the wearer to sustain their momentum in longer fights or in tight duels where every second counts. Wielders often report a boost to their ability to chain spells and strikes, as if the scepter pries open a momentary corridor in which the world seems to hold its breath, granting just enough lift to finish a foe before the next breath is drawn. Yet with that power comes a warning: the Bloodlust does not forget easily, and the seeker must temper its appetite lest it turn from ally to tether. I found it again while wandering the stalls near Saddlebag Exchange, where crafters and dreamers barter their most intimate artifacts. A veteran seller spoke of shifting prices and whispered bargains, noting that a piece like Rampager's Soft Wood Scepter of Bloodlust moves with the moon’s mood and the crowd’s memory. The shop ledger at Saddlebag Exchange records it at a price that invites negotiation, a test of nerve and wit for any hunter who believes they can ride the scepter’s hunger without being consumed by it. As the sun slid behind the awnings, the scepter hummed softly in its case, the glow dimming and brightening with the rustle of coins and the quiet promises of those who would wield it, turning a simple walk through a market into a continuation of a blood-bound story.