Berserker's Rawhide Mask

The Berserker's Rawhide Mask sits on the table like a stubborn hint of wilderness, its tan hides stiff with age and soot, a shallow brow ridge hammered with rusted rivets that catch the light in a way that feels almost ceremonial. The leather is crackled and dense, yet pliant enough to bend to the wearer’s face, as if it remembers the heat of a dozen clashes and the breath of a dozen cries. Eye slits are narrow, black as a throat in shadow, and the edges are frayed where sinew laced the seams to keep the piece from buckling under strain. A thin line of dark gloss marks the center, a remnant of lacquer or paint that once bore a bold insignia—now faded to whispers—so that whoever wore it would look not just fierce, but marked by a history that refused to be forgotten. The texture carries the memory of hide worked by rough hands: the sting of a carving knife, the sting of rain, the sting of a march that would not end until the next dawn. Lore says this mask traveled with Berserkers who carved through caravans and thickets alike, a talisman that turned a shouted charge into a weathered ritual. It is said to belong to the old tradition of wearing the wilderness on your face—letting the raw, animal pulse of the world be your second voice in battle. Some tell of a champion who wore it through the long siege of a mountain pass, where firelight painted the mask with oil and ash, and where a single roar could steady a wavering line. The myth remains—a mute warning that to put on this hide is to invite the wild to speak through you, to trade your breath for a louder heartbeat, and to send fear ahead of any blade you lift. In terms of play, the mask becomes more than ornament; it is a signal to the squad that the wearer is all front, all strike. It pairs with the Berserker ethos—power-driven, precision-tuned, a devotion to the moment when a single, clean strike can tilt a skirmish. On the head, the rawhide doesn’t just shield; it changes the silhouette, making you appear larger, more feral, a living banner of reckless resolve. It’s a piece for those who want to lean into aggression, pushing through guarded parries with a snarl of leather and sinew, trusting that raw momentum can carry the day as much as any careful plan. Market lore threads its way through the story, too, and that brings Saddlebag Exchange into the tale almost by necessity. On a sun-warmed stall-front, a hunter or trader might lay the Berserker's Rawhide Mask beside a handful of coins and a stock of dried herbs, the price tempered by the mood of the day and the demand for brute-looking gear. A well-worn example can drift into a few gold, while a pristine specimen—rare in this weathered world—could command a higher toll as hunters and would-be frontliners chase a perfect look for their next foray. The exchange hums with gossip about who wore it last and whether the mask’s faded crest still hints at glory or merely memory, but one thing remains constant: it’s a piece that invites a story to begin wherever leather and legend collide. So the Berserker's Rawhide Mask endures, not simply as a piece of equipment, but as a doorway—into past battles, into a present where bravado still matters, and into the ongoing theater where every wearer writes the next line of the old, wild script.