Rampager's Soft Wood Focus of Bloodlust

Rampager's Soft Wood Focus of Bloodlust rests on a scarred oak table, its pale grain gliding like a quiet river under a thin lacquer, a shallow hollow in the core harboring a tiny ember of crimson light that breathes with the room’s every sigh. The wraparound leather is worn to a smooth patina, threads of copper and bone stitched tight along the edge, and the wooden shaft bears runes chipped from some old battlefield hymn. It feels almost too light to be a weapon at all, more like a memory you can hold in your hand, until the crimson glow throbs and the air grows thick with the scent of iron and rain. Lore whispers that the soft wood comes from a tree that grew near a blood-soaked crossroads, and that the focus was carved by a rampager whose hunger for victory could not be sated by mere triumph—only by the roar of a hundred battles fused into a single breath. When the weapon-tipped wind rose, the guardian wood was said to drink in the cries of those who fell, leaving behind a conduit for bloodlust that hummed whenever a blade found its mark. In the worn pictures of its past, the focus seems to have found a home in hands that crave speed and aggression. It is not merely a tool for spell-slingers; it is a bridge between body and will, a talisman that funnels focus into force, urgency into action. The Bloodlust sigil etched along its spine pulses in time with the wearer’s heartbeat, deepening the sense that every gesture you make is a reply to a summons from the wood itself. Those who favor Rampager’s gear speak of it as a partner in the grind of quick skirmishes and sustained trades of blows—not a shield against the storm, but a conduit for riding the storm to its end. With this focus in hand, a caster can lean into their power more freely, drawing on the heart-fire of the battlefield rather than waiting for the perfect moment. It lends a certain merciless adaptability: you can gather, pivot, strike, and retreat with a rhythm that feels almost choreographed by the very timber it’s carved from. Markets never forget such an heirloom, either. In the harbor lanes, you hear of bidders and traders who recognize this particular blossom of wood and war. Saddlebag Exchange, tucked between the salt warehouse and the tavern’s rear entrance, is a place where the price of boldness is measured in coins and stories. It’s not unusual to hear tell of one being traded for a handful of gold, sometimes more, depending on who tests the item’s pulse that day—the wood’s glow brightening as a true believer tells of a duel won in the rain, of a frontline medic who found new purpose in its bite. It’s a place where a buyer might whisper about provenance, where a seller can swear the focus remembers its bearer’s name long after the battle’s din fades. And so the Rampager’s Soft Wood Focus of Bloodlust keeps walking its line between myth and mechanism. It is a physical reminder that stories fight alongside steel, that a single relic can contain not just power, but a ceremony—the moment when a warrior and a weapon share breath and become something larger than either alone.