Berserker's Iron Rifle of Venom

Berserker's Iron Rifle of Venom gleams with the patina of a hundred campaigns, its stock a slab of ironwood dark as a moonless night and bound with copper rivets that catch the light like sparks on a forge. The barrel is wrapped in a lattice of heat-tempered plating, letters beaten into the metal in a language only berserkers speak—sharper, faster, crueler. The sights sit proud, a notch and a hood, while the muzzle wears a ghostly kiss of green sigils that pulse when venom is near enough to wake them. The whole weapon carries the scent of oil and iron and old battles; you can almost hear the ground tremble when it is picked up, as if the gun remembers every clash it survived. Legends tie the rifle to a clan of Berserkers who carved their names into the mountains and into the steel of their weapons. It is said this model was pressed into service in a night assault upon a siege camp, where chaos flowed like a river, and a single shot broke the line at a moment the army most needed wind in its sails. The Venom in its core is not a mere garnish. It is bound to the gun by craftmasters who learned to coax poison from venom's edge with careful heat and runes, then seal it within the barrel's heart so it will whisper through the air as a deadly note. When a hunter draws a bead, the venom seems to slither along the rifling, itching for contact, ready to sting. In play, the rifle rewards a patient, disciplined hand. It asks for aim, not spray, and it rewards a strike that lands with a poison-laden kiss. A hit can etch a line of poison across an adversary, and the venom’s steady chorus—slow, cumulative damage—lets a skirmish tilt in your party's favor without you shouting for attention. It pairs with builds that crave precision and the freedom to move: a tracer to pick off strategic targets, a frontline voice who can weather a flank and still strike true. Its range lets you hold the seam between protection and exposure, a line where your team can push forward while the plume of venom continues its slow work. On the market, the rifle travels with the caravans and coin pouches that clink in the Saddlebag Exchange, where prices drift with rumor and demand as surely as tides pull at the harbor. The bargaining is a ritual—sellers pin a tag to its stock, buyers study it as if praying for a sign, and somewhere between their murmurs a price is set that feels fair to both. I watched a trader peel off a small pouch of silver, noting how the glow of the Venom sigils seemed to brighten at the moment cash changed hands. The gun finds a home where a story is valued as much as the shot it will fire, and in that exchange you glimpse the world this rifle travels through: conflict, craft, and a stubborn hope that every shot can matter. It remains a weathered witness to battles, bargains, and the heat everywhere.