Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Serpent Slaying

Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Serpent Slaying glints under the tavern's wavering torchlight, the iron surface hammered to a brutal matte that drinks every spark. A fuller's groove threads its length like a pale river, and along that line a serpentine engraving coils, as if a living thing is pressed beneath the steel. The guard curves in jagged, fang-like arcs, echoing the bite of a venomous hunter, while the grip is swathed in worn leather, dyed the color of old blood. The pommel bears a single, star-studded ruby that seems to pulse with the same cadence as a berserker's heartbeat when battle roars. Legends say the blade was forged by a berserker who hunted serpent kin in the gray heat of the Iron Gates, tempered in cauldrons whispered to hold venom without surrender. They say the runes along the fuller sing when the wielder's courage swells, that the weapon drinks the fear of the steel and lends it back as raw momentum. When the blade meets scale and sinew, the iron gleams not just with light, but with a memory—the memory of hunters who learned to read the coils of venom and strike true, of storms of steel that leave only broken hiss and quiet afterglow. In the tall shadow of the city walls, the sword proves its value not in glittering parades but in the heat of a close fight. Its weight is a language, each swing speaking in blunt phrases: heavy, precise, devastating. It slices through serpent-armored hides and through the nerves that tremble in fear, turning frightened whispers into the tremor of a retreating crowd. For a berserker who leans into the iron heartbeat of the blade, it becomes more than metal; it becomes a partner in a story that threads through court conspiracies and back-alley hunts, the kind of tale where a man or woman learns to trust a steel companion more than their own breath. The blade's true price is always paid in air and adrenaline, but there are coins to change hands in the open markets, too. It found its way into the city’s hustle through Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where old traders inspect every nick and glint as if reading a life story in scratched metal. The clerk, eyes glinting with steam and shadows, spoke in a low voice about the sword’s worth—the heft, the balance, the way the ruby seems to drink the sunset—and then offered a figure that could be bargained away with serpent skins and a ledger full of favors. It’s the kind of place where a blade like this becomes part of a larger trade: a legacy swapped between caravans and crews, promised to the next rider who dares to chase a myth down a dark alley. And so the Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Serpent Slaying remains, not merely as a weapon but as an oath—an edge that carries the hunter's story into every room it enters, until the next serpent slithered into the world and into its keeper's hands.