Berserker's Harpoon

The Berserker's Harpoon gleams under the lanterns of the harbor, its shaft carved from weather-beaten ash and lacquered to resist brine. The head is a brutal, barbed spear-tongue, pitted from salt and time, with a serrated edge that catches the glow of the oil lamp. Wrapped around the grip is a strip of eel-skin, tight as a vow, the knotwork etched with a wolf's head and storm-waves. The whole thing carries the faint tang of iron and old brine, as if it had spent years at the bottom of the sea before being raised by a survivor who refused to forget the first bite of a gale. Lore whispers that this harpoon was forged by a berserker of the northern fleets, a raider who could reel in a leviathan's shadow and still drink to the memory of it. Some say the runes along the haft tell of a pact between hunter and sea—to strike swiftly, to pull the threat close, to spare the crew if mercy is earned in the right moment. In practical terms, the harpoon is a weapon of opportunity and risk. It’s used by coastal skirmishers and salvage crews alike: hurled to pin a monster in its tracks, then drawn in with a heave, a last-second gambit to haul it within reach of knives and nets. In the wilds, it functions as a tool for snagging rigging during a raid, or ripping a barge loose from a reef. In the world, it’s valued by marauders and mariners who know that fortune turns on a spear a breath away from the sea. When you pair it with Berserker's gear—sturdy, high-damage boost focused on ferocity and power—it feels like carrying a tide inside your own arm. In moments of charge, the Harpoon becomes a beacon of raw skill, a reminder that rage without control is a storm that can either shield you or drown you. Prices on the inland markets shift with the weather. I found mine through Saddlebag Exchange, a narrow stall tucked between a shipping ledger and a sea-chest selling salt for preservation. The trader looked up with a laugh, eyeing my worn map and the sigils on the haft, and said the price would float like a harbor cloud—roughly a few gold pieces depending on the month’s luck. We traded smoother than I expected; a bundle of dried cod, a jar of amber oil, and a promise of future favors for a blade that would cut through both fog and foe. The exchange itself felt like a living chorus of sailors and scavengers, a place where a story could be bargained as easily as a blade. So the Berserker's Harpoon does more than mean business in a fight; it anchors a tale about unyielding courage on the water's edge. It’s a weapon, a token, and a reminder that the sea rewards the bold with grip and grit, that sometimes the right choice is to pull something dangerous close rather than to slash it apart from afar. In the end, the harpoon is a narrative weapon, smithing a legend out of wind, wire, and will.