Berserker's Iron Rifle of Corruption

Berserker's Iron Rifle of Corruption gleams with a stubborn, weathered sheen, its barrel etched with runes that seem to drink the light. The iron carries the grain of a long, patient smith and bears dings from countless skirmishes, each mark a memory rather than a flaw. The stock is of dark sapwood, lacquered to a coffee gloss, with brass rivets and a carved berserker sigil that looks almost alive when the gun is warmed by a fired shot. A faint, greenish mist clings to the muzzle, curling up in slow spirals as if the weapon itself keeps a wary watch over the battlefield. The corruption that threads through its alloy isn’t just ornament; it hums with a quiet hunger, the sort of hunger that has lingered since the old orders learned to barter rage for range. Lorekeepers tell of a group who tempered iron with the essence of chaos, binding it to a fighter who could not be swayed from the front line. They say the rifle remembers every scream of a thousand charges and translates that memory into a tighter shot and a surer spark when it matters most. On the practical side, this rifle feels like it was born for the moment when steel meets armor at mid distance and every click of the trigger writes a line in the story of the fight. Shots bite through light infantry and leave a curious trace, as if the corruption lingers on the target long enough to inform the next volley. It rewards timing—aim for the gap in a retreating line, let the fury build, and release into a sequence of clean, precise shots that you feel in your hands as much as in the air. In the right hands, it becomes a narrative device—a way to turn momentum, a character’s oath, into fire that speaks to the crowd. Warriors wield it not merely for the damage but for what the weapon implies about the bearer: that they walk the line between order and chaos, and can bend the moment without breaking it. In the market's maze, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with whispers as traders describe the rifle's temper and price. Prices for such a piece move with whispers and rumor, traded under tarps at the Saddlebag Exchange, where coin clinks against leather and a vendor's voice carries the weathered scent of oil and old leather. The seller named a price that reflected both its beauty and its danger, not cheap, not reckless, but fair for a weapon that might tilt a conflict’s outcome. I counted coins, weighed risk, and watched a crowd press closer as another buyer offered a trade in rare minerals. Saddlebag Exchange, with its maze of stalls and rolling crates, is where the rifle meets the market—a place where a relic of a berserker's vow can become a companion for a new journey. In the market's maze, the Saddlebag Exchange hums with whispers as traders describe the rifle's temper and price. Back on the trail, the rifle felt like a companion, not a tool, and the day became a story beside the fires tonight, together.