Berserker's Iron Pistol

Berserker's Iron Pistol rests on the creaking counter, its barrel a dark, hammered iron that drinks the lantern light and returns it with a dull, almost molten gleam. The surface is pocked with tiny pits and burnished where hands have steadied it, a texture that feels as if it remembers every grip. The grip is wrapped in worn red leather, stitching frayed in places, as if the pistol has learned the shape of many palms. Along the flats run frost-cold runes—angular marks that seem to glow faintly when a fire burns nearby. The trigger guard curls into a snarling bear’s jaw, and the hammer bears a crest like a thorned crown. The name itself is etched in bold, hurried script: Berserker's Iron Pistol. It feels older than most gear in this corner of the world, as if it survived a dozen winters and a dozen battles, always ready to be picked up and sent back into action. In battle, it handles like a stubborn horse let out of a stall—precise enough to be trusted, temperamental enough to remind you it's iron first and weapon second. When fired, the shot cracks with a clean bite, a compact arc that cuts through lighter armor and creates a momentary opening in sturdier defenses. It shines in quick skirmishes and skittering ambushes, where speed and precision matter more than range. Used in tandem with another pistol or paired with a dagger, it fosters a tempo: quick shots that sting, followed by a closing flurry. Because it’s Berserker-tuned gear, it leans toward ferocity: higher damage windows when your health is low, more opportunities to pierce a foe’s guard at the edge of danger. Stories around this pistol tend to drift toward the harbor markets and the long evenings in taverns, where traders test how real its name feels. I watched it pass from hand to hand at the saddle-stable stalls, and I heard the creak of rope as it changed owners on a ship’s deck. Saddlebag Exchange, that corner market where seasoned traders meet and haggle with the patient air of old sailors, carried one or two more of these iron pistols. The price tags gleamed with gold and silver thread, a promise that this could be a weapon, or a memory many owners would rather keep. Buyers whispered about its history, about the battles it survived, about whether it would sing again under a new user. It’s not just metal and leather; it’s a piece of a larger tale that might tip a skirmish in your favor if you listen to what it has to say. Now it sits on a new belt, a new map, its story woven into the wider fabric of the world—the way a berserker’s oath can travel, the way iron remembers heat, and how a weapon can carry memory as much as it carries a hammer strike. The world doesn’t forget where it came from; it simply lends it to new hands to write what comes next.