Berserker's Iron Rifle of Agony

The Berserker's Iron Rifle of Agony gleams on the workbench, a long, merciless tube of hammered iron that catches the lamplight in a way that makes the room feel smaller and brighter at once. Its barrel is a burnished slab, cool to the touch, with rivets like teeth sunk into the skin of a beast. The stock, a dark, weathered slab of walnut, bears scratches and scars from a hundred skirmishes, each nick telling a story of a brutal retreat or a sudden charge. Runic engravings curl along the metal—thorn motifs that coil around a central sigil, faintly red when the room grows hot with memory. The grip cloth is aged leather, stitched with care and a touch of salt from hard rain, and the butt bears a badge of a snarling wyrm, as though the gun itself has the audacity to sneer at danger. It feels heavy with purpose, as if the weapon has been carved from a storm’s throat and left to wait for the sound of battle. Lore threads wind through its metal like smoke. The iron carries the name Agony, a curse and a blessing in a single breath. It was forged in a forge guarded by berserkers who believed pain tempered steel the way fire tempers steel—by burning away hesitation and leaving only the clear, unflinching will to strike. The rifle’s first owner whispered a vow into the barrel’s echo, promising to never yield ground while the blood song sang. Since then, to draw the Berserker’s Iron Rifle of Agony is to invite a hunger—an old, loyal rage that sharpens aim and steadies the hand, even when the world tightens like a noose and the heartbeat drums a heavy, dangerous rhythm. In the field, the rifle feels like a companion that anticipates the moment you decide to be unmerciful. It’s not just a weapon; it’s a partner in a larger story about bold steps and brutal wins. The shot lands with a note of iron will, knocking back enemies with a precise crack that suggests a plan already formed in the shooter’s head. Its range sits comfortable between a sniper’s patience and a shotgun’s brutality, offering clean, mid-range clarity that rewards timing and force of will. Pair it with the Berserker’s gear, and the weapon flickers alive whenever you press past your own limits: a surge of adrenaline feeds every return shot, every follow-up, every breath taken between quick, ruthless strikes. In skirmishes and sorties alike, it becomes less a gun and more a character arc—one that depends on the courage to risk everything for a decisive moment. Pricing, markets, and the odd whisper of fortune drift around it as naturally as dust in a cellar. In the shadowed lanes where traders gather, Saddlebag Exchange acts as a nerve center for evaluating such relics—the clink of coin, the hiss of negotiation, the careful weighing of a weapon’s memory against a purse’s appetite. A veteran seller once explained that the Berserker’s Iron Rifle of Agony sits at a fickle crossroads: valued for its lore and power, yet tempered by the market’s mood and the buyer’s readiness to embrace the weapon’s wild, unquiet spirit. It’s there, between bids and murmurs, that the story of the rifle continues to unfold—one new owner, one sharpened edge, one heartbeat at a time.