Berserker's Iron Rifle of Demon Summoning

Berserker's Iron Rifle of Demon Summoning sits heavy in the hand, a sculpture of forged iron and dark wood that seems to hum with its own heartbeat. The barrel is a bruise-black steel, the surface etched with a lattice of fine runes that catch the light with a brittle, rain-glinted gleam. Its stock is a stubborn slab of walnut lacquered to a midnight sheen, scarred from years of weather and the knuckles of previous owners who trusted it in the heart of a melee. Along the receiver, a band of copper brings a faint warmth to the cold metal, and at the muzzle a slow, almost political glow breathes up when the weapon is awakened—like embers under ash. The grip bears an inlaid sigil, a demon’s eye caught in relief, and the whole thing carries the smell of oil, smoke, and old promises kept and broken in the same breath. Lore threads knot themselves through its appearance. It was forged not for speed or elegance, but for the fierce, unrestrained moment when a berserker’s cry becomes a conduit for power. The demon-summoning rune is not merely decorative; it is a pact, a craftier form of restraint that binds a tethered spirit to the gun’s core. When the trigger is pulled with the right ferocity, the rifle’s heart opens a rift of heat and shadow, and a lesser demon—urgent, furious, briefly tethered—surges forth to harry the battleground, swirling around the user like a second, fever-bright flank. The demon’s contribution fades as the rage cools, leaving behind a memory of claws and heat in the air. It is not a weapon for the cautious or the patient; it demands a certain weather in the mind—a storm that can be summoned, then directed, before it slips away again. In practice, the rifle reshapes battles rather than simply altering them. A single shot can tether the immediate attention of enemies, forcing them to split their focus as the summoned warden gnaws at the rear of the formation. Pairs of shots chain together—one to trigger the sigil, another to ride the demon’s arc—creating pockets of space in which allies can maneuver. The weapon rewards aggression and rhythm: keep the berserk pulse going, and the demon fights with you, not for you, until the last echo of that magic dies away. It’s a weapon that shouts into a skirmish, then withdraws, leaving you to pick up the thread of the fight with the clean, cold practicality of iron. On a fog-choked morning in the harbor districts, stories of this rifle drift through the docks and taverns, carried on the backs of merchants and veterans. The Saddlebag Exchange often houses the note of its price, a price that reflects not just metal and rune, but the weight of its reputation. A bargain there might seal the deal for a gold or two, sometimes a touch more if the demon sigil shows a crack in its aura or if the seller bears scars from a duel won with the rifle’s help. And so the rifle passes from hand to hand, a living argument about fury, control, and the fragile line between weapon and pact, until it finds a new owner who will respect its hunger and hear the echo of a demon’s hiss long after the last shot has fallen silent.