Berserker's Iron Rifle of the Geomancer

Berserker's Iron Rifle of the Geomancer lies on a scarred packing crate, its barrel a matte, soot-dark iron with shallow striations that catch light like fault lines. The stock is a heavy ash slab, stained the color of burnt copper and lacquered to a dull sheen that whisper-sings when you run your fingers along the grain. Runes etched along the receiver glow faintly—earth sigils curling in spirals, as if the metal remembers the ground it was carved from. A brass band clamps the barrel near the muzzle, and a leather strap, tooled with basalt and mica, hangs from the trigger guard. At the rear sight, a tiny geode refracts sun into a green spark that lingers after you blink. It feels alive, as if the Geomancer who whispered over it might return if you listen long enough. Whispers tell of its maker—a gunsmith who studied under a geomancer and learned to bind stone to recoil in a merciless rhythm. The rifle's name speaks to its temperament: heavy stock, brutal punch, a trigger that asks you to abandon hesitation for a tremor in the ground with every shot. When it fires, the impact carries the weight of a quarry fall; the bullet seems to punch through air and stone alike, leaving a tremor that unsettles enemies as their armor buckles. In a Berserker build it becomes a conductor, translating ferocity into ground-shaking follow-ups, a weapon that thrives when the world seems to crack. On the road, the gun is central to a larger story: excavations in ruined hills, churning sands, geomancers' temples awash with dust. Traders speak of the rifle as more than steel—a reliquary that channels earth's patience into a decisive strike. Its Geomancer blessing is rumored to grant steadiness in cramped tunnels, when your line of sight is a jagged shard of rock and your only ally is the earth itself. Warriors who stand in the open but strike through walls swear by its ability to bend fate—earth's stubbornness becomes their own. Prices drift like sand, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where talk turns to coin. I watched a broker trade ore and emeralds for the rifle, money shifting through fingers as a stream. The dealer's blade-bright grin reminded me that scarcity breathes life into legend. He offered two gold coins and a tidy pile of silver, but hedged, saying demand would push the price higher next week when caravans return from desert routes. The point isn't merely buying—it's borrowing a piece of the geomancer's patience, paying for the right to march into quake and stand as the ground remembers your name. To hold Berserker's Iron Rifle of the Geomancer is to feel a hinge between craft and earth. It asks for resolve, for the willingness to ride a tremor into a fight, and it rewards the patient, the bold, and the stubborn. In markets and ruins, the rifle survives because it carries a story—about a craftsman who coaxed iron to listen and a world that still believes in the promise of rock and shot.