Berserker's Pistol

Berserker's Pistol gleams under the flicker of a dusty desk lamp, its barrel a charcoal-black tube lined with faint, heat-kissed ridges. The metal speaks in stories: a steel spine, brass accents that catch the light like coins minted in a long-forgotten war, and a grip wrapped in weathered staghide that has molded to the hand of many travelers. Along the frame run small sigils—furled runes and a glinting line of red enamel—that pulse faintly when the weapon is warmed by breath or by the glow of a campfire. lore says it was forged in a berserker's forge, a weapon tempered in blood and thunder, so that a single clear shot could turn a feint into chaos. When you lift it, you feel the weight not just of metal but of oath and storm. Its uses in combat are not flashy so much as precise—a pistol built for quick, decisive pulls: a first shot to pry an enemy from cover, a confident follow-through to save a comrade from a collapsing flank. In the hands of a veteran, it becomes a tangent of fury, a conduit through which a fighter channels volatility into clarity. The gun’s fire has a crack like a whip on stone, a flash of copper sparks, and a recoil that answers with a measured afterbeat. It rewards timing and nerve; you draw, you aim, you strike with calculated tempo. Its real strength, though, lies in how it marries with the wearer’s choices—berserker traits that push speed, crit chance, and a temporary surge of tenacity. Across the map, the pistol is more a rumor than a tool—a symbol carried by caravan guards and honor-bound skirmishers, a relic that marks the boundary between order and the madness of a raid. Stories whisper of the berserker-lord who pressed the last ember of his life into the chamber, binding his last oath to an inevitability: that when the pistol speaks, fear listening breaks. On a windy afternoon in a floating market, I found it again, this time at the Saddlebag Exchange, a stall where traders lay out metal, cloth, and stories in equal measure. The clerk’s eyes track the pistol as if it were a patient being assessed for release: a glint of interest, a measured nod, a ledger that creaks with every trade. The price tag shifts with rumor and demand; a bargain hunter can strike a fair deal, while a collector may push the bid higher, each note and coin clinking like a small chorus. The vendor explains that in the right hands, the Berserker's Pistol can be a companion in the field and a badge of memory for a village long since rebuilt. When you finally pocket the pistol, you do not simply own a weapon; you inherit a thread of the world’s wider struggle—the blur of desert road and frozen cliff, the memory of oath-bound fire, and the long, patient work of turning fury into purpose. It invites your own story to begin, a steady resolve walking a road lit by smoke.