Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Air

Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Air gleams with a brutal sheen, the blade hammered from iron that has weathered storms. The steel wears a dull, velvet patina along the fuller, a whisper of frost that never fades. Runes etched in swift strokes wrap around the ricasso, wind-swept sigils that shimmer when lantern light catches them, as if the blade could fold the room with a single breath. The guard curves like a hawk's wing, catching the edge of the hand and throwing a gust at anything too close. The pommel bears a crest—a berserker in mid-charge, cloak and hair streaming back as if the wearer rides an invisible current. It feels heavy in the hand, solid enough to resist a misstep, yet balanced enough that the swing wants to keep going: a heartbeat of steel and air. Lore murmurs it was forged in storm-torn workshops, tempered by winds itself, bound to the berserker path that rides the belief of free air from hillside to hillside. Soldiers whispered that the blade's power is not only strength but momentum—an instrument that remembers weather and uses it to carve through ranks. When drawn, the blade hums with a dry energy, like wind snapping at a chain. In the hands of a practiced wielder, it becomes a weather-vane, pointing toward openings and turning every clash into a gust that drives foes apart and leaves the air around them clear. In practical terms, the blade is a weapon of opportunity. It favors aggression and brute momentum, letting sweeping slashes set up follow-throughs and quick bursts of cadence to maximize impact. It asks for a bold rhythm: trade reach for speed, weight for motion, and watch for the moment you can ride a breeze into a devastating parry-into-stroke. The blade reflects the wielder’s own storm: bravado carried by a careful eye, a willingness to let it find its tempo while you hold the line. Put differently, it makes a battlefield feel like a wind-swept corridor where only the swift survive, and the air itself conspires to seal the fate of those who fail to move with the storm. Market whispers lend the blade a rumor of value, a price that travels with it as if it has its own wallet. At Saddlebag Exchange a cautious collector might haggle, tracing the sigils with a gloved finger and offering a price that glints in the torchlight. The seller nods, sliding the blade across the table, and the air tightens for a moment, as if the deal itself compressed the wind. When it changes hands, the new owner feels the blade pull toward distant skies, a promise that every swing leaves a widening wake, a little more wind in the world, a little more history to carry forward. If you listen closely, you can hear the old berserker’s breath in the hiss of the blade, the way the current answers the call of a rider who would rather cut through air than trudge through fear. The blade remains a legend in motion—forever racing the horizon, forever answering the wind.