Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Accuracy

Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Accuracy gleams with a pale, honeyed grain, the wood so smooth you could slide a fingertip along it without catching a splinter. Its shaft is carved from a single branch of a soft-wood tree, light as a sigh, with subtle freckles of darker rings that tell of storms endured and days spent at river’s edge. A crescent of brass bands holds the head—a scepter head shaped like a hawk in mid-screech, beak sharpened and eyes inlaid with amber glass that catch the torchlight. Along its length run runes of coppery ink, braided in the old Berserker tongue, promising steadiness when the world tilts. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, threadbare where the palm would sweat with effort, yet still supple enough to hold fast under pressure. A small sigil, a forge-flame curled into a ring, sits just beneath the guard, pulsing faintly when the user draws near a target. Locals tell a softer tale about the scepter as well, that it was forged not to crush but to command attention—an instrument born from the rage of a berserker who learned to listen closely to the whispers of a marked blade. They say the soft wood absorbed the thunder of battlefield roars and kept the edge of intention true, so that even when the wielder’s breath grew ragged, the aim did not waver. The lore winds through taverns and smithies, curving toward a memory of a hunter who walked the line between frenzy and focus, keeping his sight trained on a single moment where a single strike could tilt a whole night’s fate. In practical hands, the scepter becomes a partner in action as much as a talisman. Its accuracy enchantment is said to tighten the gap between intention and consequence, turning a hurried swing into a deliberate arc that lands with a sharper, more certain note. For a guardian skirting the edge of a churning battle, it means more reliable hits with the scepter’s own skills, more precise channeling of healing wards into the fray, and a quiet confidence that a repeatable motion will meet its mark. In the hands of an adept Mesmer, it folds into a rhythm of illusion and counter-attack, every crafted image aligning with the real world just long enough for a strike to become inevitability. The item threads itself into the world’s wider tapestry the way a river threads through a valley—seen in small, telling scenes: a morning fire in a caravan camp, a team sprinting over slick stone, an archer pausing to test the balance of a new grip. It isn’t merely a weapon; it’s a story piece, a link between a berserker’s fire and a ranger’s patience, between remembered courage and present precision. late-morning, I wandered into Saddlebag Exchange, the market where old gear is weighed against new stories. A dealer leaned over the counter and regarded the soft wood with a scholar’s patience, muttering of rarity and resonance as copper coins clinked in exchange. The price floated in a familiar rhythm—two silver, a handful of copper here and there—enough to tempt a buyer who recognizes the scepter’s promise without surrendering the caution of a wary purse. The seller’s eyes glinted with the memory of a chapter left open, and I felt the weight of the scepter shift in my palm, as if the wood itself approved the next sentence of its long, wandering tale.