Berserker's Mace rests on a scarred wooden table, its head a brutal iron disk crowned with a ring of brass that catches the glow of a sagging lantern. The metal wears a bloom of bronze patina where it’s been kissed by heat, and the face bears shallow gouges—little trophies of some long-ago skirmish. Its grip is wrapped in worn leather, worked smooth by hands that learned to trust the weapon’s weight, not its promises. Along the haft, runic sigils curl in a gold thread, not in neat order but as if a memory keeps folding in on itself, a map of battles fought and lessons learned. The whole thing feels seasoned, as if it has been passed through the hands of a dozen owners who learned the same hard truth: a mace is not a weapon you wield so much as a verdict you deliver. Lore ties the mace to a long-forgotten chapter of warriors who believed fury could be tempered into purpose, not chaos. The runes tell of a berserker order that learned to channel their raw strength into precise, disciplined blows, a paradox that gave their strikes the force to shatter shield and resolve alike. Some whisper that the brass rings were gifted by a smith who swore the weapon could hear the cadence of a battle drum, guiding a braced shoulder and a steady, unflinching arm. Whether truth or myth, Berserker's Mace has endured as a symbol—rage measured, not wasted, a blunt instrument with a mind behind it. In the field, its advantage is clear: a heavy, decisive head that drives through armor and momentum alike, delivering pulsing rage in a single, crushing arc. It isn’t a weapon for patient fencing or delicate parries; it asks for proximity, for the close, stubborn contact where a warrior’s breath and timing fuse into something larger than sinew. Paired with a shield or used to puncture an opening before a secondary strike, the mace punishes hesitation and rewards bold choices. Players who chase Power, Precision, and Ferocity—typical Berserker’s stat lines—find the mace a natural fit for front-line skirmishes and brief, tearing bursts of damage. It’s a weapon that tells a story with every hit: I came for control, and I brought the storm with me. The market breathes life into that story, too. I wandered past the Saddlebag Exchange, where tents stitched from canvas and rumor clung to the air like heat. A trader with wind-streaked hair unfurled the weapon’s history with a practiced smile, weighing its worn grip against the bright glare of a pristine head. The price tag—somewhere in the range of a few silver for the weathered examples, climbing toward a gold or more for a robber’s-eye pristine specimen—made the moment feel less like a purchase and more like a chapter being added to a living archive. The hawker’s fingers traced the sigils, calling attention to the lineage of the piece, to the way a blade’s edge and a tale’s edge can meet in a single, telling moment. Berserker's Mace isn’t just gear; it’s a stone in the road of a wanderer’s legend, a tool that fuses history with the heat of battle, and a constant reminder that in a world where every strike writes a line of fate, some weapons are meant to be remembered as much as used.