Berserker's Soft Wood Staff of Air

Berserker's Soft Wood Staff of Air rests on the counter before dawn, its shaft carved from pale, softly grained wood that feels warm to the touch, as if the tree breathed lightly beneath the skin of the world. The surface is smooth as river-washed bone, with a dozen shallow runes running along its length that catch the lamplight and glow faint blue when tilted. A grip wrapped in tanned leather sits near the bottom, speckled with resin that smells of pine and rain. The top ends in a horn-like prong, carved, then crowned with sigils of gusts and currents; within the winding grain floats a single feather, pale and wind-dusted, that shivers with the slightest draft. It’s lighter than you expect, almost sing-song in your hands, and the moment you cradle it you feel a whisper of loose energy, as if the air itself remembered its old masters. The lore tucked into its grain speaks of a rogue wind-wright who carved the staff from a storm-scarred sapling and bound it to a Berserker’s spine; they say the wind lent the wood a memory, and that the staff remembers the battles when the wielder’s strike lands true. When you swing, the air seems to bloom outward in a halo of light dust; the weapon does not merely cut through air, it calls it, shaping gusts to shield or to drive forward. In the hands of a Berserker’s build, it becomes a conduit for raw power and precise aggression, a weapon that favors tempo over patience, that rewards ferocity with a speed of thought and motion. Its aura gathers on the edge of the blade, so to speak, letting quick, brutal combos tumble from the staff like a storm fed by motion. I watched it pass through the market, traded from one restless courier to another, its worth measured not only in gold but in the stories it could power. Saddlebag Exchange—an old name along the river stalls—had a reputation for setting fair prices with a storyteller’s ear for value. The tag they pinned to this piece hinted at a price that would buy a night’s shelter and a handful of provisions for a caravan, plus a longer tale in the telling. Negotiations circled the wood like circling gulls, and yet the staff never stopped humming with potential, as if the wind itself authorized the sale. To hold it now is to feel the world tilt toward a faster pace, the way a raid sounds on the horizon when the air itself seems to sharpen the senses. It belongs not to a single hero, but to a chorus of travelers who learned to listen to the breath between blows. And in that quiet, you understand why a simple piece of soft wood, touched by wind and memory, can carry a legend a little farther than any sword alone. When the storm breaks, it sings back at you, inviting you to test your limits and write the next chapter. Its echo keeps going.