Berserker's Mordrem Warbow

Berserker's Mordrem Warbow catches the light like a living thing. The stave is a deep, rain-dark wood, the grain swirling into tendrils that emulate the vines of Mordremoth. Inlayed along the limbs are jade-green threads and tiny leaf motifs, pressed into the lacquer until they seem to breathe. The grip is wrapped in weathered leather, slick with use, and the pommel bears a carved sigil—a thorned fern coiled around a wolf's fang—hinting at a pact between hunter and forest. The string glints with a pale, ghostly thread and the tips are wrapped in horn that glows faintly when the bow is drawn near moonlight. When you tilt it toward the light, you can swear the wood carries a subtle pulse, as if the woods themselves lean in to listen. Legends say this bow came into the hands of a lone berserker who wandered the Verdant Brink, trading his oath to fortitude for the forest's own appetite for war. The Mordrem shapers, who braid living wood into weapons, lent a living steel to his aim; each shot would thread through armor and thorns alike, guided by a hunter's unshakable will. Its tempering was said to be a pact: once drawn in a righteous cause, the vines tighten, the leafwork blooms with emerald light, and crit chance rises like dawn. On the field, the bow rewards patience and boldness. Its power and precision lean into a Berserker build—highs that crackle under pressure, the ability to strike with ferocity when the moment demands. It lends itself to open-field skirmishes where mobility and burst matter; it rewards aiming at the exposed back or weak spots, and its slightly longer reload suits quick-shot tactics. Party compositions with healers and banners still flourish; the bow's versatility lets a hunter switch to kiting or to heavy crits while favors remain on the frontline. Within the whispering trading posts of the frontier, the Berserker's Mordrem Warbow passes from hand to hand, each owner adding their own memory to the weapon. Hunters tell of a night hunt where a single arrow felled a towering thorn-beast, the mossy shadow closing behind the bolt. In the eyes of villagers, it is not simply a tool but a symbol of defiance against the creeping green hunger that would swallow farmland and friends alike. On Saddlebag Exchange—an old market stall among traders and adventurers—the bow surfaces in threads of lore and price. Listings talk of rare skins and pristine embers; price tends to hover in the gold range, climbing when scarcity tightens, dipping when fresh stock arrives. A buyer may haggle, swap a few other trinkets, or offer a barrel of supplies to seal the deal. The exchange's chatter makes the weapon feel alive beyond the quiver, a rumor becoming a trade and a trade becoming a story retold around campfires. Some nights, a buyer finds not just a weapon but a path—that thread binding hunter and wood, a memory that survives after every hunt, as if the bow itself keeps time with the forest's heart.