Berserker's Rawhide Vest

Berserker's Rawhide Vest sits on the peg like a trophy, a slab of sun-warmed brown leather that’s seen better days and yet holds a stubborn glow of pride. The hide is thick and grainy, with a texture that bites back at the touch—grainy ridges that map the terrain of a rough lifetime, small nicks along the hem, and stitching that looks as if it survived more travels than the wearer did. A weathered buckle, chewed by wind and weather, glints with a quiet bronze, while the chest bears a faded crest—a snarling wolf’s head—settled into a circle of coarse thread. The edges curl slightly, not from carelessness but from countless marches through thorn-dense brush and rain-slashed evenings, when the leather drank in the damp and exhaled its own memory. It feels almost alive in your hands, as if the rawhide remembers every stride of the hunter who wore it before you. Lore says the vest was born in the shadow of the wilds, back when a band of berserkers claimed the forests as their arena and their code. They pressed rawhide to the skin to stay light and ferocious, not to drown in metal and rustle in armor that might trap their breath. The wolf crest, stitched with stubborn care, was more than decoration; it was a pledge to move as one with the pack, to meet each skirmish with a hunter’s instinct and a savage heartbeat. While the stories mutate with distance and tellers, the vest’s reputation endures: a working relic for those who value speed, instinct, and the brutal grace of a well-timed strike. It’s not merely a piece of gear but a talisman that threads its wearer into a lineage of prowling, fearless athletes of the open ground. In practical terms, the vest is built for offense as much as for agility. Its leather is pliant enough to allow sudden turns and rapid steps, yet sturdy enough to shrug off minor scrapes in the brush. In the right hands, it becomes a catalyst for a crit-focused playstyle—boosting power and ferocity, sharpening precision, inviting hits that land with a hunter’s certainty. It’s the kind of piece that invites a wearer to lean into bold, decisive moments: a charge across a sunlit clearing, a sprint between trees where the world narrows to the thrum of a heartbeat and a single, clean strike. It’s easy to romanticize, perhaps, but the vest does what real gear must—make the wearer feel more awake, more present, more likely to seize the moment. Prices in the bustling Saddlebag Exchange drift with the tides of demand: a clean, unenchanted Berserker's Rawhide Vest might fetch a modest handful of silver in a quiet week, or, when trends tilt toward aggressive builds, a few copper more as travelers bargain for a piece that says “go fast, hit hard.” Traders haggle with stories as much as numbers, trading anecdotes of hunts and narrow successes as they trade fabric and thread. It’s a market that believes in memory as much as metal, and in the end, the vest remains a doorway—into the past of a pack-wide vow and into the future of any pilot who chooses to ride the edge with their own fierce, unbounded gait.