Berserker's Iron Spear rests on the workshop bench, its shaft hammered from dark iron that catches lamplight with a dull, bruised gleam. The head is cruelly straight, a long single-edged spear point forged to a razor-thin bevel, its edge still sharp enough to sing when it brushes a shield. The tang is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with thread the color of dried blood, a grip that bites into the palm and refuses to slip. Lantern glow slicks along the bore and along the fluted veins etched along the haft, where runes pulse faintly, as if the weapon itself listens for a drumbeat of rage. The iron bears the marks of long hours and careful hands, tiny dents from smithy hammer blows that somehow deepen its silhouette into something more than metal—into something that could carry a berserker’s vow into the melee. Locals tell a story of it being forged by the Ironwrights of a border town, and then a berserker champion used it to carve a path through a fortress siege, the weapon’s name whispered with the hiss of steel and the roar of a battle-drunk crowd. Some say the runes were laid down not by chance but by a pact with memory itself, a reminder that fury, when tempered by craft, can become a beacon on a crowded field. In the telling, the spear isn’t merely equipment; it’s a character who speaks only when the clash begins, a partner that tests the owner’s courage as fiercely as it tests the enemy’s resolve. In the world, its significance lies as much in its presence as in its performance. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a frontline skirmish feel choreographed by fate—the reach to press, the balance to pivot mid-stroke, the weight that suggests every thrust carries a member of the crowd’s own breath behind it. Those drawn to Berserker’s ideals gravitate to this iron’s rough elegance, believing that rage, when guided, can cut through the fear and leave a track of order in the chaos. It invites a style that favors momentum: a sequence of thrusts and sweeps that keeps adversaries on the back foot and allies buoyed by the spectacle of steel meeting shield and hull of armor. The lore-laden heft of the spear feeds into a larger story about the world’s old orders—gladiators, mercenaries, and wanderers who test their mettle against towers and tides alike—and this weapon carries a trace of every such tale it has touched. Market chatter sifts through the market stalls and caravan routes, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes the living thread of its current price. A merchant there talks softly of the iron’s demand rising whenever a new batch of berserker relics hits the shelves, and dipping when expeditions yield fewer finds. Those who trade in these relics speak in careful numbers and cautious smiles, knowing that the value isn’t solely in gold but in reputation and memory. The spear’s price, said with a conspiratorial wink, follows the same rhythm as a drumbeat in a tavern: it climbs, it rests, it returns to the hands of someone bold enough to lift it and shout into the noise of a crowded world. So it sits, ready for the next clash or the next dawn, a reminder that rage can be forged, not merely felt—that iron, when guided by a steady hand and a fearless heart, can become a voice in the hands of those who would rather act than endure.