Berserker's Shattered Focus lies in my palm like a shard torn from the mouth of a storm, a slender cylinder of glassy crystal cradled in a braided grip of darkened bronze. The surface bears a spiderweb of fractures that glint with ember-red light, as though a thousand wounds have learned to glow in the dark. Runes run along the metal rim, not neatly etched but singed, as if someone pressed a savage memory into the metal and let it cool into a warning. The core pulses with a feral warmth, a heartbeat I can almost count—one, two, three—each throb pulling at the edge of my thoughts, like the moment before a frenzy breaks. It feels at once ancient and ready, as if the piece itself remembers every bout and every roar that ever crossed its path. Lore whispers that the focus was forged from the shattered remnants of a legendary berserker’s weapon, fused by a smith who traded caution for courage. They say the glassy core once housed a war-cry, a roar that could tilt a siege, and the shards were bound by sigils of ferocity to keep the tempering from slipping away. When wielded, the focus does not simply empower; it invites a scarred past to walk beside the wearer, as if the spirit of a hundred battles leans in to whisper the next move. Touch it and you can feel the memory of steel and wind, the way rain feels against bare stone after a long campaign, as if the item itself is a map drawn in heat and ruin. In the world I walk, the Berserker's Shattered Focus serves more than ornament; it is a blade’s shadow cast upon a spellcaster’s sleeve. Its presence boosts raw power, lightens the toll of hesitation, and threads ferocity through the wearer’s toolkit. With Power, Precision, and Ferocity braided into its design, the focus reliably nudges a build toward ruthless clarity: a window opens to strike clean, to punish a foe’s mistake with a double and a shout. It turns the moment of rage into a measured sequence—burst, breath, break the line, move on—so a berserker can dance the line between control and storm without tipping too far. For those who crave aggression in their play, it is a chorus line of the fight itself: a chorus that pulses a little louder every time the blade sings. Pricing stories weave through markets and taverns, and I heard tell of Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan stall where coins exchange hands as steadily as rumors. There, a wary trader spoke of the Shattered Focus trading hands for something like two gold and a handful of silver, with the price skittering up or down on the wind of demand. A tidy sum, perhaps, but one that many a marauder or ritualist would weigh against the value of a bold, decisive hit. The shopkeepers murmur that if you’re patient, if you watch the ledger and the timing of the crowd, the bargain finds you in the right light. So the focus sits, still and gleaming, a relic that asks for the story to continue. When I lift it again, the world feels closer to the edge of a cliff where every shout could become a roar, and every roar could become a legend.