Berserker's Iron Rifle of Leeching

The Berserker's Iron Rifle of Leeching gleams under a hunter's lamp, its barrel a midnight-black cylinder lined with faint, dragon-scale etchings and a stock that bears years of fieldwork. Rivets catch the glow and the iron bears a stubborn patina, rubbed smooth by hands that know the weight of a long chase. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, the brass fittings patinated to a warm gold, and a slender sling hangs from the trigger guard as if ready for another dawn patrol. Along the fore-end, runes pulse in a slow, ember-red beat, as if the rifle remembered every shot you’ve ever taken. In the old stories whispered at nightfall, this rifle is said to carry the breath of a besieged stronghold and the oath of a berserker who learned to feed on the life of the fight. The Leeching enchantment is described as a quiet siphon—every successful strike drinks a sliver of the target’s vitality and returns it to the wielder, steadying the hands and brightening the eye in the moments when courage must be earned again. Whether it’s fact or superstition, the weapon’s aura is undeniable: you feel as if the iron itself respects a hunter who pays with blood and returns it as will. On the field, the rifle rewards tempo, not mere accuracy. A careful, patient approach—pull, fire, observe—becomes a loop that threads life back to you while the world sells you space to breathe. A Berserker who knows when to press and when to pull back will find the Leeching rifle a partner in that uneasy math: it lowers the cost of fear, converts it to momentum, and keeps you in the fight longer than a pure, one-shot build would. The weapon’s lore bleeds into strategy: it favors arc of movement, it invites aggressive peels, and it turns every encounter into a test of timing, not just aim. I found it tucked away at Saddlebag Exchange, a corner stall stacked with maps, pouches, and the scent of oiled leather. The tag wasn’t flashy, but the clerk’s eyes held a story: a price that reflected risk and respect—roughly a dozen gold, with room to barter on a tale told well or a rare trinket added to the deal. The weight of the rifle felt heavier when the verse of its past rose in memory—hunts taken at dawn, chases through rain-slick streets, alliances formed in the glow of a forge’s last ember. When you lift it, you don’t merely hold a weapon; you cradle a clause in a larger account: the pact between hunter and life, the hunger of the day’s end, and the promise that a single shot can still tilt the balance toward the living.