Berserker's Privateer Hat of the Afflicted

Berserker's Privateer Hat of the Afflicted rests on the display bust as if it were listening for orders, its tricorn crown cracked and pliant, the leather worn to a soft matte where the fingers feel every salt-soaked hour it survived. The surface is a weathered patchwork of storm-gray hide and black lacquer, brass rivets hammered into the shape of compasses and anchors, a faded privateer’s crest pressed into the front like a memory pressed into the skull of a storm-tossed ship. The brim carries a ring of salt-burnished fibers that catch the light with every swing of the room’s lanterns, and the scent is a stubborn blend of tar, powder, and rain that clings to the skin long after you’ve stepped away. It looks half relic, half weapon, and the way it sits on its stand makes you feel the sea’s pull just inches behind your eyes. If you lift it, you find a narrow seam that opens to a pocket where a folded logbook page peeks out—careless handwriting, smudged by damp and time. The note is a whisper of lore: the Afflicted are not simply a curse but a way of speaking about ships that carried fever and bad luck across rumor-slicked lanes of trade. The hat, in its own quiet way, binds that terror to a privateer’s reckoning—the kind of reckoning that ends in mutiny, in a captain’s desperate gamble, and in the ship’s wheel spinning toward a horizon only the bold or the fool would chase. lore says the affliction followed this tricorn from port to port, stitched into the lining by hands that knew the sea’s cruelty and the price of staying alive. In the world of the game, this hat is more than ornament; it is a declaration of intent. The Berserker’s Privateer Hat of the Afflicted channels that same seafaring fury into the wearer’s combat stance. It carries a Berserker stat line—heavy on Power, Precision, and Ferocity—so that every swing feels like a cannon’s recoil and every crit lands with the crack of a mast snap. Wearing it, you feel the momentum of a ship leaping from a calm to a storm, a rush that makes you press on through armor and resistance with a predatory grace. It’s a choice for those who want their character to carry the memory of a raid, to look like someone who would trade a calm harbor for a breaking wave. Collectors and adventurers alike speak of its uses as part of a larger story—the privateer who refused to surrender even as the Afflicted’s fever crept into the crew’s bones, the way the hat’s scrutinized patina becomes a map of past skirmishes and hard-won plunder. Prices drift in the market like open water, and you can hear the chatter of trade rooms, the clink of coin, and the hum of gossip about scarcity and luck. On Saddlebag Exchange, the hat’s listings rise and fall with the tides, traded not only for gold but for memories—dyes, rare sigils, or a favor owed. Some days a buyer offers more for the legend than the stat line promises; other days the hat sits in a quiet corner, waiting for a captain bold enough to wear a memory again and steer it into a fresh battle.