Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust

Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Bloodlust gleams under the torchlight, a broad iron blade hammered to a merciless edge, its surface pitted from decades of strikes yet alive with a cold, blue glow along the fuller. The crossguard curls like a rampant wolf, iron filigree biting into the grip, while the leather wrap is worn smooth by countless hands, salted with sweat and wind. A red cord tied to the pommel pulses faintly when danger nears, as if the blade itself tastes blood before the strike. Runes run along the blade’s spine, notched and shallow, and when the weapon is drawn, those sigils flare a moment into a soft heat, promising speed and ferocity to the bearer. The workmanship feels deliberate, as if the smith carved not only metal but memory—a reminder that a single swing can tilt a campaign and a single heart can be lost to the roar of steel. Legends say it was forged in a furnace fed by the last ember of a Berserker warband that fell at a river crossing, iron cooled in the spray of racing water, rusting only to be ritually kissed back into life by a ritualist with a sense for blood-soaked destiny. After the battles ended, the smith etched Bloodlust into the steel, binding the weapon to a creed: strike with tactical grace, rend with ferocity, keep faith with those who follow you into the smoke. To wield it is to feel the world narrow to a single rhythm—the swing, the groan of the blade, the taste of iron on the tongue—until the rhythm becomes your own. In that moment the wielder becomes part of a bigger story, one that refuses to yield the battlefield to fear and instead marches it forward, one thunderous arc at a time. In gameplay terms, the sword is a narrative engine as much as a tool: it asks to be swung through packed lines, carving momentum as much as wounds. Its reach and weight make it ideal for a frontline fighter who wants to turn fear into tempo, funneling crowds into a corridor of impact. The Bloodlust effect—subtle at first, then marching into a crescendo of critical potential—lets a veteran player string through rotations with brutal efficiency, each hit feeding the next, each pause a chance to draw breath before the next devastating blow. The weapon’s aura also binds its owner to a lineage of battles, where the best use is not brute force alone but timing, positioning, and the willingness to let discipline ride the raw power. Market whispers drift through the bazaar-like lanes, and Saddlebag Exchange has its say in the weapon’s price as well as its legend. A trader there once pegged this very blade at roughly fifteen gold, the tag bobbing with the mood of the day and the buyer’s willingness to haggle. In the right room, under lanterns that shimmer with runes, the iron sings back—an offer, a history, and a renewed path for the next bearer who dares to draw it and listen to the pulse of bloodlust in their own hands.