Zojja's Berserker Insignia

Zojja's Berserker Insignia rests on the desk, a circular disk of burnished bronze, its surface hammered with the sting of a hundred trials and edged in copper filigree that catches the lamp light like ember dust. The rim is etched with a tight relay of sigils that flare faintly when the room grows tense, as if the badge itself remembers the moment the wearer’s breath shortens and the world narrows to the ringing of a single decision. In the center sits a small, faceted red gem, cut to imprison heat, a living ember that seems to pulse with each heartbeat. Around the gem the runes coil in a protective spiral, neither wholly rage nor wholly calm, but a balance struck in the heat of a moment that demanded both. It feels warm to the touch, as if it absorbed the echo of past conflicts, a reminder that power can be bound to purpose only when tempered by restraint. Lore whispers that Zojja, the asura’s scholar and storm-bringer of Destiny’s Edge, poured a shard of her volatile brilliance into a few chosen insignias, this one among them. The insignia, she would say, is not a trophy but a tool—a reminder that knowledge without force is brittle, and force without discipline is chaos. It was forged not for show but for use, a token passed through trusted hands at the hinge of crisis. The tale continues in the way of legends—how a berserker clipped to the thin line between hero and reckless, charged a breach with the badge burning near the heart, barking a warning to the siege beyond the gate while others found their footing in the smoke. The insignia carried both the scholar’s cool calculation and the frontline fury, a combination that could tilt a skirmish in a single, decisive heartbeat. In the right hands, the insignia becomes a chorus of intent: it channels raw drive into a sharpened edge, boosting the wearer’s overt strength and the likelihood of a rapid, punishing strike. It helps a frontline fighter lean into the moment when the team needs a surge of momentum, when the shield-wall falters and a single blow must carry the day. It’s not merely a stat-stick; it’s a talisman that whispers of duty, of expeditions where every pound of armor and every breath of wind carries a story, a decision, a consequence. Market days in the city square bring a different current to the badge’s tale. Traders bustle under striped canvas, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a known harbor for such pieces, a place where stories fold into coin as easily as sigils into metal. I watched a broker lift the insignia with reverent care, weighing its potential against the risk of wear. The conversations drifted from condition to provenance, and the number rose and fell in gold as if the badge itself chose its owner. On a good day, a well-kept Zojja’s Berserker Insignia could fetch a comfortable portion of gold—enough to fund another expedition or secure a quiet corner for a fledgling apprentice to study the runes. On others, a more battered example would ride the market’s tide for less, finding a temporary home with someone who believed in the legend as much as the utility. So it sits, this badge of forged intellect and tempered fury, a small circle with a big story. For those who carry it into the fray, it’s a reminder that power, when guided by wisdom, can become the kind of force that writes the next chapter in the world’s uneasy, endlessly unfolding balance.