Berserker's Iron Rifle of Venom

Berserker's Iron Rifle of Venom catches the lamplight and drinks it in, a weapon that looks ready to bite. The barrel is a dark, hammered iron that has earned a whisper of green patina along its fluting, like a serpent’s spine just waking from a cold sleep. Its stock is carved from ash, smooth and dense, with a gloss that catches the finger laid upon it and refuses to let go. Runes run along the receiver in a serpentine script, lacquered in venom-green gloss that shifts with the angle of the eye, as if the weapon itself were keeping small secrets. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by long travels and faster days, and the butt bears an icon of a berserker’s storm—fierce, unquiet, and utterly unyielding. It feels heavy in the hand, but when you shoulder it, the weight becomes a promise you can lift and carry into the night. Lore threads tangle here, too. Some say the rifle was forged in a furnace fed by the rage of a captured berserker clan, tempered with venom collected from swamp serpents and venom-flecked drakes. The weapon’s name isn’t just praise; it’s a vow that anger, properly tuned, can be precise as a scalpel. A whispered tale claims the venom in the engravings was chosen to mirror the wielder’s own heart—unpredictable, dangerous, and intensely focused. It’s not merely a tool of war; it’s a relic of a heat-hazed moment when steel met fury and the world shifted on its axis for a breath. If you listen closely, the rifle seems to hum with a memory of that moment, a low thrumming that travels up your forearm when you lift it, as if the gun is waiting for the next story to be written in the air between its muzzle and a distant target. In gameplay terms, the rifle is a partner in long-range ambush and careful strike. Its shots carry a coating of poison that does damage over time, weaving through enemies who fail to break line of sight or circling away from cover. Every hit feels like a small, careful incision—one shot, one consequence—until your foe is writhing under a slow-bleed of green, venom-touched seconds. The weapon rewards patience and positioning: lead the target, let the poison bloom, then slip away to refill the masking quiet of the map. In a larger story of the world, it’s the kind of tool that a hunter-turned-survivor would rely on when alliances are frayed, and every inch of ground must be earned with precision rather than brute force. The market’s heartbeat shapes its price, and that heartbeat isn’t a single number but a chorus of bargaining and risk. I found it tucked behind a crate at Saddlebag Exchange, where prices rise and fall like a tide controlled by rumor and demand. The vendor’s fingers hovered over the ledger, weighing gold against risk, offering a figure that made the room feel thinner around the edges. The stock was not merely for sale; it was a story on loan, and the price reflected not just metal and glyphs but the weight of every hunter who’d once pressed their aim into the night with it.