Berserker's Mace gleams with brutal beauty: a heavy iron head hammered into a squat rectangle, its faces scored by previous storms of battle and lined with runes that glow a slow ember-orange when the air tightens around it. The edges are eased, not sharp, like the blade of a hunter who knows restraint, and the flat face bears the faint imprint of a clenched fist myth etched in long ago hours of practice. The haft is wrapped in weather-worn leather, each turn of the strand revealing a history of grip and sweat, while a bone or iron pommel bears a feral sigil—a snarling wolf’s head that hints at the berserker’s blood-wrought allegiance. It feels weighty in the hand, as if it already expects a contest, a charge of momentum waiting to be released. lore threads braid through its making: forged in the heat of a siege where banners burned and the ground smelled of iron and pine, the mace is said to have belonged to a lone berserker who bound his own vitality to the weapon, a vow that rage would not consume him but guide his blows. In tavern whispers and war-worn camps, craftsmen insist the head remembers the cries of the fallen and learns to echo them in a bludgeoning rhythm. When you lift it, you hear the distant thud of that vow, a drumbeat that seems to step in time with your own pulse. It’s not merely metal and wood; it’s a relic that invites the current moment to collide with the century that came before. In practice, the mace feels as decisive as a closing door in a hall of enemies. Its blows land with a blunt, obdurate force that shatters shielded stances and leaves a debtor’s mark on armor and pride alike. For those who ride the edge of risk in combat, the Berserker’s Mace offers more than raw strength: it invites timing—the moment to ride a stun or disrupt a retreat, to follow a brutal opening with another heavy strike before the momentum leaks away. Warriors speak of it not just as a weapon but as a companion in the furnace of front-line skirmishes, a visible sign of a choice to meet aggression head-on rather than slip away from it. The market’s wind carries the scent of oil, leather, and coin as a trader’s gavel taps on wood, and the exchange is never far from a story. At Saddlebag Exchange, a wheezy old broker with a hawk-faced glance names a price that glints in the lantern light—twenty silver coins, with a promise to throw in an extra stashed map if the buyer’s resolve remains steady. The negotiation threads itself into the narrative of the mace: a traveler buys not only a weapon but a chapter in a larger journey, a weapon to forge or defend a purpose, a piece of a legend that continues to travel from hand to hand, from campfire to battlefield. The price is more than currency; it’s a token that the world still remembers what violence once wrought and what it can still accomplish when wielded with discipline. So the Berserker’s Mace endures, not merely as a tool of force but as a living artifact that steps between memory and moment, guiding the bearer’s stride toward the next clash, the next tale, the next dawn.