Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Hobbling

Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Hobbling gleams with a weathered sheen, the iron catching light like a thin, reluctant sun. Its blade is broad and honest, a heavy slab of metal that bears the telltale scars of many battles: nicks along the edge, a line of faint bloom where rust fearfully tries to creep, and a long fuller that runs like a shallow river through its heart. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, mottled brown with age, the guard a simple muscle of steel that curls around the hand with practical comfort rather than ceremony. A runic sigil gleams near the pommel—three arrows bound by a knotwork of what looks like dried bloodstone and iron, a reminder of the berserker orders that once believed violence could be disciplined into purpose. The weapon feels almost alive in the grip, as if it breathes with the rhythm of a marching column, steady and inexorable. Its lore is stitched into the metal itself. The blade was forged for a rider-turned-thunderstorm, a commander who faced shield walls with the ferocity of a storm uncaged. They christened it with the name of their creed: Berserker, a promise that fury could be turned into form, momentum made into aim. The Hobbling enchantment—an older enchantment, whispered about in markets and campfires—causes a deliberate, creeping stiffness in those the sword meets, a momentary misstep that lets a front line falter just enough for allies to press forward. It is not a flashy trick; it’s a measured, brutal grace, like a rider who knows when to pull back the reins and when to surge through a breach. In the hands of a practiced berserker, the iron sings into a rhythm—one heavy wind-up, one devastating follow-through—that can rearrange a skirmish’s tempo as surely as any shouted command. The sword’s presence on the field is as much a message as a weapon. Fighters speak of its weight as if describing a veteran, a constant in the chaos who can cut through fear as cleanly as steel through cloth. When the line tightens and the pressure grows, wielders of the Berserker’s Iron Greatsword of Hobbling crave its raw certainty: the way each strike carves space, the way the hobble effect, if it lands, can bend a retreat into a stubborn advance. It’s a tool for frontline discipline, a beacon for those who think in psalms of momentum and vigil. In the bustling lanes where traders haggle and the clink of coins rides the air, the Saddlebag Exchange has become a kind of chapel for stories and prices. Here, the sword is not just metal; it’s an argument about value, about risk and reputation. A dealer will trace the blade with a knowing finger, weigh its history against the day’s mood, and offer a price that reflects both its enchantment and its scars. Prices drift with conditions, demand, and the skill of the negotiator who can thread a tale of siege and storm into a fair bargain. A buyer might walk away with a number in mind, or walk away with a legend, depending on how the stall’s coin and wind align. Either way, the Berserker’s Iron Greatsword of Hobbling remains a story you can hold, a weapon that does not merely cut but remembers—the blade that pressed a breach, steadied a charge, and kept marching when the battle seemed ready to falter.