Berserker's Iron Rifle of Bloodlust

The Berserker's Iron Rifle of Bloodlust sits on a scarred merchant's table, its barrel a thick slab of iron lacquered in a deep, almost bruised red. Runic vines coil around the muzzle, catching lamplight and throwing sharp crimson flecks across the dim room. The stock is a mosaic of hammered plates stitched with cracked leather, worn smooth by years of grasping and misfortune. A crest—two snarling teeth framed by a circle—guards the tang, and rivets, worn down by weather and assault, bind the whole thing together as if it were forged to outlast its owner. Lift it, and the weapon settles with a solid, almost proud weight against your shoulder; cock it, and the room seems to lean in, listening for a heartbeat in the metal before the trigger’s dry, bone-like click answers back. Lore threads braid through its practical bite. This rifle, they say, was forged by a clan of iron berserkers who believed rage could be tempered into steel, then tempered again by discipline until it sang. In fireside tales, a shot from Bloodlust is not merely a strike but a punctuation mark—decisive, brutal, and tinged with ritual memory. Those blessed by its lineage claim the weapon feeds on the thrill of danger, returning momentum in the form of a swifter, heavier impact. Bearers move with a measured cadence, their breaths aligning with the next shot, their eyes counting the moment when the shield gives way and the line fragmenting crowd parts like a sentient sea. In combat, the rifle rewards restraint as much as fury. It excels at mid-range skirmishes where a precise, well-timed bolt can disrupt a frontline or carve a path through tangled melee. It rewards patience: a pause, a breath held just long enough for the perfect aim, then a crack that carries through armor and spirit alike. The gun’s lore-tinged edge adds a shadowy halo to every engagement, turning a routine firefight into a story that other fighters will finish for you in taverns and markets. For those who treat gunplay as a dialogue with history, Bloodlust becomes less about raw speed and more about writing the moment so that a single shot can alter a battlefield’s memory. Prices drift through markets like tides, and here the Saddlebag Exchange becomes part chronicle, part confession. A seasoned trader tests the iron’s weight, the leather’s wear, and the age of the runes, then nudges a buyer toward the truth: this weapon is a passport as much as a tool. The counter offers a soft bargain—gold exchanged in quiet pockets, a cache of rare ores, or a memory from a siege—each telling a different version of the same story. The buyer must weigh not only coin but consequence: what loyalties will bend, what enemies fear a single, perfect bolt? That evening, I test it in a rain-slick courtyard, the stone drinking in every echo. The first shot splits the night with a clean, surgical crack; copper dust blooms on a shield boss, and the recoil yawns but the bolt lands true. Moonlight drapes the barrel, where runes glow faintly as if to remind that power demands restraint. In the end, this rifle is more than metal and mechanism; it is a rumor given form, a catalyst that reshapes choices and destinies the moment its next shot rings out.