Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Air

Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Air gleams under the lantern's pale glow, a brutal slab of tempered iron adorned with wind-swirled sigils that seem to whirl as you blink. Its blade carries the weight of a sudden storm, and the uneven surface catches light like the surface of a swift river just before it breaks. The grip is wrapped in weather-dark leather, the pommel a conical cap shaped like a gust, while the crossguard fans outward, weathered wings frozen in place. The whole thing smells faintly of rain and iron, and you can hear a distant whisper from the runes when you bring it close to your ear: a promise that the air belongs to the wielder. Legends say it was forged during a rite that summoned a storm's ally, tempered in rainwater cooled in the eye of a cyclone, and bedded with ash from a thunderclap. When it moves, the blade seems to pull at the air itself, like a draft sliding through a tunnel; with each swing the edge hums, and a gust follows the arc, sending light protections tumbling and steam from the clash cooling the iron's face. Warriors who crave relentless tempo call it a companion that keeps pace with their adrenaline; those with Berserker aims see their raw strength braided with the wind's unpredictability. In the heat of combat it feels less like a weapon and more like a contract with the weather. A truly seasoned wielder can set up a sequence where the first strike shivers the line of defense, the second follow-through opens a wound of wind, and the third finishes with a roar of air that knocks opponents off balance and leaves them staring at the sunset through spinning dust. Its heft makes every charge feel righteous, every roar of the crowd a chorus of wind-chimes, and in the right hands it becomes a storm you control rather than a storm you endure. Market sounds drift in from Saddlebag Exchange—the clink of coins, the hiss of tar, and the muffled chatter of buyers tracing a blade's past. I watched a trader peel back the ragged sleeve of a would-be buyer, expose a rough price tag, and offer it with practiced ease: two gold and twenty silver, plus a tale of a captain who swore the sword followed his sinews into every raid. The buyer hesitated, weighed the weight in their palm, and finally nodded; the exchange closed with a soft rustle of leather and a skeptical smile from the shopkeeper. Who knows what storms the Berserker's Iron Greatsword of Air will ride next? In pockets of tavern light, in markets crowded with salt and rope, its legend travels between sailors and senders and rough-edged guardians who remember when a gust of wind did more than lift a sail—it carved a path through the world. The blade remains not just metal, but a living account of weather, warfare, and those who learned to listen to the air and let it guide their stroke. Always.