Berserker's Greatsword

Berserker's Greatsword gleams under the harbor lamps, a broad blade that drinks the night and returns it polished back in return. Its surface is a mirror of storm clouds—dark, corrugated, and somehow alive—with a edge that looks as if it could slice the air and leave a memory of it on your knuckles. The fuller snakes along the length like a river carved by a restless hand, catching every glint of lantern light and turning it into a trail of silver sparks. The hilt is wrapped in worn charcoal leather, threads of copper rivets biting into the grip, and at the pommel sits a small, stylized claw that feels cold enough to remind you that the weapon has seen winters. When you lift it, the weight settles into your stance as if the blade itself has chosen you, and the low hum it carries sounds almost like a distant drumbeat of war. Lore threads through that weapon the way fog threads through a quiet harbor. It’s said to have been tempered in the fire of a storm worshipper’s forge, under skies that never fully agreed to calm. A berserker’s oath is etched in the blade’s runes, not a whisper but a vow; to swing it is to invite fury, to let the storm within the steel become a language you speak aloud with every heavy strike. The blade retains a memory of the battles it has witnessed, the kind of memory that clings to the metal until the edge forgets nothing but remembers everything: the clash of armor, the taste of iron, the moment a foe staggers back from a sweeping arc as if the air itself grew heavier with each passing second. In actual play, that memory becomes practical purpose. The Berserker’s Greatsword is a weapon of momentum and discipline—a two-handed instrument that rewards patient measurement as much as reckless courage. A skilled wielder learns to mirror the blade’s breath in their own: a first, slow breath to steady the hands, then a heavy, world-moving swing that can fracture shields and carve through opposing lines. Its advantage lies in staggered, sweeping lines: one powerful arc that leaves you with a longer, louder second strike, followed by a decisive finisher when the moment finally shifts in your favor. It’s a weapon that thrives when you can read the battlefield like a map written in rune-light—opening space for teammates, closing gaps in the line, turning a tense skirmish into a narrative of control and consequence. Market days add their own color to the blade’s legend. A traveler’s ledger, titled with care at the Saddlebag Exchange, lists it with a price that speaks of its fame and the risk of chasing storms: roughly two gold and a handful of silver, negotiable if you can sway the merchant with a story of battle-tested use. I watched a rider haggle, the stall’s tar-smell, the floury dust of travel boots, and the glow of a lantern reflecting off that very edge as if the sword itself were bargaining for a future elsewhere. The price isn’t just coin; it’s a toll paid for a blade that has memorized every road it’s carried and every storm it’s weathered, promising to illuminate the next night’s cavalry charge with the same unbroken glare. So the Berserker’s Greatsword remains more than metal and leather and runes. It is a companion that has learned to speak in the language of the battlefield, a relic that travels from market stall to war camp, always asking its wielder to listen, and to swing with the same fierce, unyielding honesty that carved its name into the world.