Berserker's Iron Rifle

Berserker's Iron Rifle rests on the table like a captured storm: a long barrel of matte iron, the bore glinting faintly, heat-browned ridges along its length. The stock is a patchwork of dark wood and hammered steel plates, stitched with brass pins that catch the light as you raise it. The iron surface bears a patina of use—the sort of wear earned in rain and dust, braced against a shoulder by a strap of worn leather that smells faintly of oil and campfire. The grip is smooth where palms have learned the weapon's rhythm, and the sights sit off-center, a tiny constellation of metal dots that promise a straight shot if you keep your breath. Legends insist it was forged not only in a smith's furnace, but at the edge of a forest where berserkers watched over a trail of skirmishes. The iron is tempered with something darker than iron—the old stories say a drop from a fallen star tempered the rifle and lined it with stubborn grit. The name itself seems to swear loyalty to those who push forward when others retreat, who trade caution for a moment of brutal clarity. In the heat of a siege, this rifle becomes more a partner than a tool of sport: its bullets bite through light armor and dense hides, letting a marksman carve lanes through the smoke where allies gather behind barricades. It rewards precision, not loud bravado: the kind of hits that ripple through a squad, weakening shields and opening the way for a charge. For players who lean into power and vitality, the rifle aligns with a build that thrives on bold, uninterrupted shots—each crack a reminder that momentum, once seized, is hard to break. In the markets that thread through cities and camps, bargaining takes on its own ritual. A vendor stall in winding lanes catches the eye, and Saddlebag Exchange sits above a door in stitched letters. The rifle tends to command a price that mirrors its story and utility: not merely metal, but the promise of a moment when risk is tempered by a single trigger pull. Saddlebag Exchange often sees these pieces traded as “seasoned” or “mint," priced according to wear and the subtle signature left by the last bearer in a rainstorm or a dusty skirmish. Some days it’s a snug purchase for a mid-tier hunter; other times, only a collector's coin will do, a reminder that gear is as much memory as metal, about who carried it into battle and how. And so the Berserker's Iron Rifle rests again on a wooden rack, waiting for the next dawn when a hunter steps into the mist, checks the sights, and lets the world fall away to a single, decisive aim. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a story that keeps walking, even when the skies clear and the ground grows quiet again. And if you listen closely, you can hear the story echo in the rifle's chorus as it fires.