Berserker's Mace

On my bench rests Berserker's Mace, its head a dark, oiled block of iron etched with runes that glow faintly when the hammer's memory stirs. The surface bears nicks from a hundred duels, a pattern of strikes that tells a story of use more than beauty: the edges are blunt-stroked with careful sharpness, the face pitted like a shield pressed into a crowd. The haft is wrapped in worn leather, the grain of the wood riding a gentle swell under the grip, and a small crimson gem sits in a brass ferrule near the pommel, catching lamplight and throwing it back in a single, bright heartbeat. It feels alive in the hand, as if the weapon remembers every foe it has faced and every oath it has kept. Locals whisper that this mace was forged in the heat of an arena long since forgotten, tempered by the blood of those who sought glory rather than gold. It bears a crest, too faint to name, sewn into the leather wrap—an emblem of a dancer’s balance and a warrior’s rage, a merging that matches the weapon’s purpose: to break a phalanx’s rhythm and force a moment of surrender. When you swing it, there is a weight that seems to pull you forward, a reminder that power is a conversation between body and weapon, not a chant to conjure alone. It’s the kind of tool that can crack a shield wall and leave a dent in a veteran’s pride, yet it never forgets the discipline behind the roar. In practical terms, the Berserker's Mace is built for the frontline—high raw power, precise timing, and the ferocity to push through armor when a clean strike wouldn’t suffice. It favors aggressive play: you chain bludgeons into bruising bursts, you exploit openings, and you lean into crits that sting. The lore-woven aura isn’t mere theater; many who carry it insist the weapon’s rhythm guides their hands: a tempo that becomes second nature, turning brutal force into a kind of eloquence. In a world where battlegrounds shift from courtyard to cliffside, that fluency matters as much as any rune or stat line. Market days make the tale tangible. I watched a seasoned trader unpack a handful of Berserker’s Maces, their leather wrappings rubbed smooth by rain and travel. The word around the stalls—it travels with every wind-borne rumor—points to Saddlebag Exchange as the place where prices drift with the same mercurial pace as a siege drum. There, the mace tends to sit in the mid-range of exotic weapons: not the steep, ascended peak, but still a coveted prize for those chasing steady, high-impact DPS. The price shifts with the runes and infusion, the reputation of the seller, and the memory the buyer brings to it. So the Berserker's Mace endures in the world between glare and grit: a weapon of stories, of fights won and debts paid, of a tempo that keeps the line intact while the crowd roars and the horn sounds. Its roar awaits, always.