Berserker's Torch

Berserker's Torch sits in my palm like a small sun trapped in a bronze fist. The metal is weather-worn and warm to the touch, a patina that has learned the stories of many hands gripping it through long nights and longer battles. Its grip is wrapped in leather straps that have become slick with resin and oil, the stitching frayed in places where a restless thief of wind and a restless heart pressed too hard for too long. The head of the torch wears a glass bulb that shelters a stubborn flame, always hungry and bright, even when the world around it is drenched in shadow. The glow is a fierce orange, a core of ember that spills along etched runes—bear claws and ash sigils entwined in a circle of ferocity. When you tilt the flame toward your face, the scent of scorched oil and resin rises like a memory, a reminder that warmth here can mean survival out in the frost-bitten lanes and the glare of campfires that never truly die. Lore threads braid into its metal and glass as if the torch itself remembers every storm it walked through. It’s said to have been forged for a clan of Berserkers who traded whispers with weather-worn tribes, tempered not by mercy but by the rhythm of a war drum that beats even in sleep. The inscriptions speak of courage sharpened into habit, a flame that chooses its bearer as much as a blade chooses its master. Some scholars whisper that the torch bears the echo of a vow: to guard the reckless, to light the way for those who walk the knife-edge between fury and purpose. In the right hands, it is less a tool and more a companion, a stubborn light that refuses to yield when the world grows dim and the routes become uncertain. In practical terms, the torch is more than a pretty relic. It serves as a reliable beacon in the labyrinths of ruined cathedrals and echoing caverns, guiding squads through pockets of darkness where enemies and hidden glyphs like to hide. Its flame stiffens nerves, a quiet nudge toward decisiveness when the schedule of a raid grows tight and the map seems to crumble under foot. For those who weave ferocity into their play, the Berserker's Torch is a constant reminder that sight matters as much as strength: a little extra light can reveal a path to a strike, a telling glow on a shield-bearing frontline, a spark that keeps a morale-wrung unit moving forward. In the larger story of the world, it’s a token of a creed—the fierce, unflinching will to advance, no matter what shadows crowd in. Market talk drifts into the tale like a familiar scent at dusk. I wandered into a backroom stall and found the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders measure not just worth but tale, where a Berserker's Torch is weighed as much by lore as by coin. The price tugs with the season’s mood, sometimes reflective of pristine condition, sometimes softened by a scar or two from years of travel. The merchant’s eyes twitched with a soft grin as he spoke of buyers who chase the torch for practical raids and for the stories they tell around a campfire after long marches. It’s a small ritual, yet essential: a flame passed from one hand to the next, a promise that the light endures even as the world grows colder and the road ahead demands a steady glow. When the torch finally settles back into its holder, you can feel the world tilt toward possibility—the roar of a storm held at bay by a friend’s bright, stubborn beacon.