Berserker's Rifle

Berserker's Rifle rests on the workbench, a long, glinting promise. The barrel is brass and burnished with a slow, deliberate patina, the metal catching the lamp light in thin, amber threads. The stock is a river of dark wood, worn to a soft satin by hands long gone into history, with a lash of aged leather wrapped around the grip. Runes are inlaid along the receiver in a jagged, feral script—things whispered to whoever loads the weapon to keep calm and hold still at the edge of a fight. The sight—a simple notch and a brass bead—glitters with a hint of mischief, as if it remembers every shot fired in feigned patience, every long waiting moment before a decisive blow. It feels heavier than it looks, as if decades pressed into its spine. When you lift it, the rifle seems to know the plan: pierce through armor and fear alike, sift through crowds, and pick out a single target with a surgeon's calm at the edge of a fight. The textures tell a story: the barrel's fine striations from the grind, the wood's minute checkering that catches your thumb, the lacquer darkened along the grip. Some nights, a rumor threads through the taverns—that it was tempered by a berserker who traded fury for precision, and that the weapon remembers the siege's oath. In the other side of daylight, its significance becomes practical poetry. The rifle rewards patience: a careful pull of the trigger, the wind and distance measured, a clean, high-impact strike that opens a skirmish for a single foe. It suits hunters who blend caution with ambition: you take a measured shot to remove a problem before the melee erupts, then step back into the shadow of a wall. Its reload whispers rather than shouts—a practiced click, a snap of the breech, and a ready line of sight waiting for the next cue. In raids and forays, it anchors a build that balances raw power with battlefield reading. Markets gossip with the wind, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where that wind gathers and trades hands. If you ask the stall-master about this rifle, he will tilt his hat and tell you a tale of crosswinds, then name a price that glints with promise—roughly a couple of gold, some gems, perhaps a curio or two. It is the kind of weapon that deserves a careful buyer, someone who understands that value is not only in the steel but in the story it carries. I watched it pass from traveler to traveler, the price settled with nods and stamped coins, the seller's eyes bright with memory of the battles that forged its fame. It remains a choice you make with the weight of a thousand stories on your shoulders.