Berserker's Soft Wood Focus of Corruption

Berserker's Soft Wood Focus of Corruption rests on the table like a seed carved from dawn-lit timber. The wood is pale, almost luminescent, with a satin grain that twists in spirals under lamp light. Its form is slender, a fingertip thick, shaped for the palm yet light enough to feel the tremor of battle in your bones as you grip it. Along the rim run etchings—thin, burnt lines of runic sigils that resemble roaring flames, softened by wear. A generous inlay of inky resin bisects the body, curling in a serpentine arc toward a central cavity where a small orb of shadow sits, opaque and watchful as a pupil. The surface is smooth to the touch, yet the patina suggests it has walked through kitchens, camps, and skirmishes, as if the wood itself remembers every footstep. The whole thing carries a faint tang of resin and rain, as if it were drawn from a grove that fought back against the corruption it now holds at its heart. When the focus is held, the world narrows to breath and bright lines of energy. The Berserker's Soft Wood Focus of Corruption seems to drink in a wielder's rage and pour it outward as a concentrated surge, a moment of clarity in the chaos. The piece sharpens timing, nudges the hand toward critical strikes, and when the moment is ripe, flares with a shield-like glow that steadies the heart and steadies the stance. The lore whispers that this piece was forged by a berserker clan who sought to bind uncontrolled fury in a living wooden stave, tempering it with corrupting shadows that could either empower or consume its bearer. That tension—power with cost—is the spine of its reputation. Soldiers speak of using it to break through the front line, to peel back fear, then pay the price in a whisper of memory that lingers after the clash ends. I kept hearing rumors of a stall in the early market where this kind of relic would surface, a place where traders haggle with coins and stories alike. A rider who once lived on the road between camps told me to check Saddlebag Exchange, where old debts and bright bargains float together like driftwood and pearls. There, under a tarp stiff with dawn dew, the focus rested on a felt pad, priced at twelve silver with a chalk-mark note promising room for negotiation. The price felt fair enough to me only because the vendor spoke of the focus as if it had a life and a memory of every battle it ever watched. Saddlebag Exchange is not merely a shop; it is a crossroads where courage, history, and coin meet, and where a curious buyer can walk away with more than a trinket, but a pivot point for a future tale. Back at the cradle-fire, the focus glints with that quiet menace and almost seems to pulse in sympathy with the timeworn firelight. It belongs to a world where every object carries a rumor—that a weapon once soaked with the fury of a tribe might still insist on guiding its owner toward a path of discipline amid chaos. The Corruption within the wood remains guarded, a reminder that power is a gift with a ledger, and that sometimes the right choice to bear it is as crucial as the blow that delivers it.