Berserker's Iron Rifle of Water

The Berserker's Iron Rifle of Water sits on the bench like a relic salvaged from a drowned ship: iron plates dark as a raven’s wing, the muzzle etched with frost-dark runes, and a blue patina that crawls along the barrel as if tidewater itself were injecting restraint into the steel. The stock is a weathered slab of ash, wrapped in grip-worn leather that smells faintly of brine and rain, with brass bands that catch the light and remind you of sunken anchors. Along its length, spiral flutes catch the glow and cast little, wave-shaped reflections across the ceiling. The grip is generous enough for a steady hand, and the trigger guard curves like a kelp blade. If you tilt it toward the light, you can almost see a ribbon of aqua that threads through the metal, as if the weapon itself keeps a sliver of the sea inside. Lore says it was forged in a tide-washed harbor by a berserker smith who believed that steel should drink the rain to stay true, then tempered with rainwater and storm-sung rites until the weapon learned to echo with a patient, patient roar. In the field, the rifle earns its keep with a quiet confidence that makes a hunter believe the sea is listening. It is not merely accurate for mid-range shots; its Water affinity, whispered into each cartridge by a sigil carved into the stock, guides the bullet along a smoother arc and grants a practical edge in the weathered, wind-swept arenas of skirmish. A precise pull delivers a clean strike through light armor, and the water sigil—visible as a pale shimmer along the barrel—releases a ripple of energy on impact. The ripple travels outward in a brief spray, slowing pursuing foes and preventing escape with a soft, almost ceremonial drag. That same ripple is a subtle kind of aid for the wielder, a small restoration of vitality drawn from the wellspring inside the gun when shots land true and the sea-scented smoke curls away. It’s a weapon that asks for patience: aim, listen for the swell of the tide in the lungs, and fire when the wind tilts just so. In a larger campaign, it is a compass and a chorus a coastal convoy could rely on—an icon that signals resilience in the face of storm and retreat. Market whispers carry its name into the morning air, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes the stage where two merchants measure the worth of a memory. I watched a trader stroke the iron barrel, eyes flicking to the blue gleam, then trade glances with his partner as the price—reflective of scarcity and stories—danced between coin and cargo. One offered coins, another a map stained with seawater and soot; both agreed the rifle’s value lies not only in its metal but in the routes it carries, the battles it sightlines, the legends it leaves fishermen and scouts whispering on long, salt-wick nights. The exchange lands the Berserker’s Iron Rifle of Water squarely into the hands of those who know that power is as much about stewardship as it is about force, and that every shot is a line drawn between harbor and horizon.