Berserker's Iron Pistol

Berserker's Iron Pistol sits on the vendor’s cloth, a stubborn blade of iron made to breathe fire in the hands of a storm. Its barrel is a matte, weathered black, the metal panged with shallow grooves that trace a quiet, feral pattern under the lanterns. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, once chestnut, now the color of weathered blood, and the iron frame is studded with rivets that glint like stubborn sparks whenever a passerby’s torch catches them. Along the length, runes are etched in a furious hillside script—marks meant to wake the bear of a heart that never knows when to back down. A small medallion, a wolf’s head in relief, is pressed into the underside of the grip, as if the weapon itself keeps watch for the rider who dares to ride with it. It feels heavy in the hand, not merely metal but intention, the kind that weight can carry without saying a word. People say it was forged in a cold mountain forge by hands that had once chased storms, hammered into shape by a line of berserkers who believed rage could be tempered into precision—or at least into something that would bite back when the moment came. In the market’s murmur it seems to breathe, and when you cradle it you can almost hear the stories of skirmishes and caravans where pistol shots split the air like a cracked whip. In the hands of a sharpshooter or a desperate frontline scout, the Berserker’s Iron Pistol becomes more than a weapon; it’s a compass needle, pointing toward bold decisions when fear begins to press in on the field. Its balance is surprising for such a brutal silhouette: the weight sits just so, the trigger easy to reach, the sight aligned with a hunter’s patience. With a pair of pistols or a single aimed strike, it asks for a responsive, throat-tight moment—when the adrenaline cracks and the ferocity roars to life. It’s the kind of tool that prizes quick, clean takes and rewards a mind that reads the battlefield as if it were a map that only shows its own hidden roads after you’ve stepped onto them. In moments of chatter between fights, you hear veterans recount how the pistol’s bite matches its lore: a weapon born from the fury of a berserker, sanctified by the discipline of a craftsman, and tempered by the long, quiet hours spent at the anvil. Pricing, of course, threads its own story through the stall’s hum. A trader whispers to a curious traveler that the Berserker’s Iron Pistol has a price that tethers to the moment’s mood—silver and a trade or two, perhaps a spared scroll or a token of abandoned use. The Saddlebag Exchange sits nearby, its awning a salt-and-pepper quilt of odds and ends, where the market’s pulse is most honest. The seller’s ledger shows a few sheets of numbers and a note about demand in nights of rain, and someone in a hooded cloak mutters, “If you want it, you’ll need to move with it.” The conversation shifts, a bargain made, a story carried away with a click of leather and the scent of iron cooling in the air.