Berserker's Torch

Berserker's Torch sits on the rough-hewn table, its shaft wrapped in worn leather that has weathered to the color of dried blood, and the head is a ring of blackened iron that cradles a pulse of living flame. The glow is pale gold at the edges, edged with orange the color of dried sap, and the texture of the metal is rough with hammer marks and faint scorch lines that trace the weapon's brutal history. Runes etched along the grip catch light when you tip it at the right angle, and a tiny crest—two wolves crossed over a burning sigil—peeks out from beneath the leather. The torch feels warm to hold, almost alive, as if it remembers every battlefield it has ever lit, every campfire it has ever guarded. Old lore says this flame was tempered in the bellows of a caravan of berserkers who roamed the edge of the Shiverpeaks, where ice and iron share a stubborn fate. They claimed the torch fed on fear and courage in equal measure, brightening whenever a fearless heart pressed forward into the dark. In the telling, it is less a weapon than a beacon: a sign that a chosen path is lit for those who refuse to yield, a reminder that even in the deepest night a single flame can become a procession. In practical terms, the Berserker's Torch is a tool that fits beside the flame-cold world-time of a dungeon run or a cliff-side ambush. Players wield it to illuminate crypts where carvings vanish in dust, to reveal hidden switches carved into damp stone, and to signal allies when the world narrows to shadows and approach becomes a risk. Its presence is a small ritual: lift, glance along the halo of light, and let the glow draw attention to what was meant to stay unseen. Many climbers of the world who have handled it swear the flame grows steadier as heat and adrenaline rise, and that the torch’s light carries a rough, untamed edge—like a roar tempered into flame. I learned this while trading at the Saddlebag Exchange, a creaking market by the harbor where weather-beaten crates spill their stories as surely as their wares. The vendor tucked the Berserker's Torch into a bundle with some frost-bitten runestones, then eyed me with a wry smile and a price that could be bargained over and over. He spoke of supply routes, of other guardians of flame who kept to the old paths, and of travelers who understood that a torch is not merely light but a promise: to show the way, to test resolve, to carry the heat of a world that never fully sleeps. Carrying it forward, you carry a story—one that binds a blade of fire to a will of steel. The Berserker's Torch is both relic and ally, a bright thread in the larger tapestry of those who push toward dawn, no matter how long the night. In every hand it becomes a compass, a story, and a spark.