Berserker's Mordrem Cleaver

Berserker's Mordrem Cleaver gleams in the torchlight, a blade that looks as if it were grown, not forged: broad and hungry, the edge a jagged crescent of jade-hued metal that hums softly when you cradle it in your palm. The surface bears pale, thorny runes that twist along the spine like ivy, catching every glint of fire and sending it back in a thousand micro-sparks. The grip is a living thing in disguise—braided vine and leather that tightens just enough to feel like a heartbeat against your fingers, with a pommel carved from bone-white splinters that echo the forest’s oldest songs. A whisper of resin and rain clings to the blade’s belly, a scent both earthy and intoxicating, as if the weapon itself remembered every storm that fed it. Its weight sits heavy and deliberate, a promise of force that will shift the tempo of any fight the moment you swing. Lore threads through the Cleaver like the root system of a great tree. It is said to have been grown from Mordrem flesh and wind-wrung timber, a relic of the plant-spirit’s own craftsman, tempered by a berserker who learned to hear the forest’s heartbeats and answer with a roar. The Mordrem’s vine-bloom pattern along the blade’s face supposedly shifts with battles won, a living chronicle of who dared to stand beneath the canopy and refuse to bend. Worn by those who fell in a clash where thorns and steel spoke in the same language, the Cleaver carries both restraint and fury—an artifact that wants to carve a path through history as much as through enemies. When you lift it, the world seems to lean closer, as if listening for the moment you decide to let the green fire within the blade blaze outward. In practical terms, the Cleaver is a weapon of decisive counting—one swing can break an opening, two can crown a push, and three can tilt a skirmish in an instant. It suits the berserker mindset: relentless, high-risk, high-reward. Its affinity lies with Power, Precision, and Ferocity, turning every crit into a chorus and every clash into a story you tell yourself after the dust settles. In open-world roaming, it cleaves through brambles and armored foes alike, leaving behind a smear of emerald glow that lingers on armor and skin as a reminder of the forest’s claim on the ground you just claimed. In organized battles, it rewards aggressive, relentless tactics—the kind of play that makes you lean into a surge in adrenaline, timing your heavy blows with the rhythm of your own heartbeat. It’s the kind of weapon that makes a moment feel like destiny, the air thick with the scent of resin and rain as you carve a path forward. Market whispers drift through Verdant markets and tucked-away stalls, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the rumor becomes price. There, the Berserker's Mordrem Cleaver can trade hands for a sum that reflects its rarity, its lore, and the weight of the counter-charm it carries; seasoned traders haggle over provenance and runes, sometimes swapping stories as deftly as coins. A seeker may leave with the Cleaver wrapped in oiled cloth and a pocketful of gold, or barter with jade-tinted gems that echo the blade’s green glow. The exchange isn’t merely a shopfront; it’s a crossroads where history, hunger for power, and the forest’s stubborn endurance meet, and where the Cleaver’s next chapter is tempered by a buyer’s resolve as much as by a craftsman’s blade.