Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Earth

Berserker's Soft Wood Scepter of Earth sits on a worn velvet pad, its shaft pale as birch and the grain curling like a living map under a thin gloss of resin. The wood feels springy to the touch, almost breathing—warm where your palm rests and cool where the carved runes bite into the light. The head is a rough globe of stone bound to the stave by a ring of aged brass, its surface mottled with mossy greens and minute chips where a lifetime of battles has chipped away at pride. Veins of mineral streak the wood near the grip, as if the earth itself had pressed up through the wood to leave its mark. A single leather thong loops from the butt, singed at the edges from long nights of travel, so it won’t slip when the wielder’s hands loosen their grip in the middle of a charge. The whole thing carries a scent of pine resin, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of old coin—the scent of legends being carried from camp to camp, like a story that won’t sit still. Lore clings to its surface as surely as its own sheen. Carved sigils wind along the shaft—stones half-sleeping in the night, roots and rivers braided into a single oath to earth’s patient, unyielding strength. They say the scepter was grown from a sapling that sprouted at the heart of a long-slumbering quarry, nourished by mineral water and the tremor of an ancient fault line. Those who fashioned it believed the weapon could listen to the ground, translating tremors into warning, anger into force. In the stories, Berserker’s Soft Wood Scepter of Earth chooses its master as much as a master chooses it, glancing toward the bravest heart in the fray and offering a pact: endure what shakes the stone, and the earth will tilt the field in your favor. In practical hands, its utility feels like a conversation with the landscape itself. The scepter slows the pace of fear, guiding a fighter’s rhythm so that every strike lands with the certainty of a landslide. In the heat of a siege or a skirmish at the edge of a cliff, the earth-signature glows faintly, and one can almost hear a distant heartbeat travel up the wooden shaft. It intensifies a berserker’s core strengths—crit pressure, raw melee reach, the stubborn endurance that turns bruises into stories told later by the fire. Players notice that landing a decisive blow feeds the scepter’s graveyard of memory, releasing a small tremor that unsettles nearby foes, as if the ground itself were shaking off its old guilt and choosing to stand with you. Market days bring a different kind of tremor—the market tremulous with anticipation, the wind carrying whispers of traders and travelers. I watched the scepter pass from stall to hand at Saddlebag Exchange, a place where relics mingle with rumor and the price tag is as much a tale as the item itself. The vendor’s chalk-white fingers tapped out the final number—three gold and a small cluster of silver—before the buyer’s eyes confirmed what the wood seemed to have known all along. It is a price not merely paid but exchanged for a promise: that earth’s patient force can be turned to a burst of courage, that a weapon carved from living wood can still bend fate when held true. I walked away with the scent of resin and rain, and the sense that some small, stubborn thing had found a new witness to its old, steadfast vow.