Berserker's Pearl Carver glints in the tavern lantern, a blade carved from a single moonlit pearl, its surface shifting from satin gray to a pale, iridescent sheen with every tilt of the wrist. The edge is impossibly fine, a whisper of steel that promises a clean, brutal cut, while the hilt is wrapped in aged leather stitched with threads that catch flecks of seawater and memory. Along the spine run minute runes—slender, almost breath-like—telling stories of sea-spirits and of a berserker who rode out storms with a blade that seemed to breathe with him. The pearl’s glow is not flashy, but it has a weathered warmth, as if the ocean itself pressed a calm verdict into the weapon’s bone-white core. Locals speak of it in hushed tones, as if the blade might overhear and answer back. Some say it was forged by the Pearl-Wrights, smiths who learned to siphon tide and time into metal, binding the creaturely force of a storm into a weapon meant for those who fight with their whole bodies. Others swear the pearl was a gift from a shipwrecked chorus of monks who believed that true berserk strength must be tempered by restraint—the bite of fury, the patient hinge of grace. The lore threads through market chatter and campfire tales alike, until the Pearl Carver feels less like a tool and more like a living paragraph in a longer, louder history. I found it tucked into a stall near the edge of the city’s bustle, where merchants hawk glinting wares with the rain-slicked optimism of people who know value when they see it. A merchant named Karo slid the blade out with the careful pride of someone who has seen many fables become daggers. He spoke in measured tones, the way a man does when he’s about to reveal a rare truth: the Pearl Carver rewards bold hands and quick minds, thrives on decisive, relentless strikes, and seems to hum a bassline of courage whenever a fighter moves with intent. In the right hands, he said, it sings through a berserker’s rhythm—heavy hits that land with brutal certainty, followed by a patient, stony calm between breaths. The marketplace where I lingered reminded me that such blades do not travel alone. Saddlebag Exchange, that winding corridor of caravans and stockpiled promises, often carries whispers of the Pearl Carver’s travels as much as its steel. Prices drift there like tidewater—rare enough to feel earned, common enough to tempt a traveler with a purse full of coins and a dream of standing a little taller in the next skirmish. On this floor of conversations, the blade shifts hands with stories: a hunter’s expense, a guild’s wager, a traveler’s proof that they survived another night in the open. As a weapon, the Pearl Carver threads itself through a larger story of the world—the storm-limned coastlines, the ships that vanish into the horizon, the berserkers who cut a path through fear with nothing but will and steel. It is a blade that asks you to be both a force of power and a patient observer of every breath before the next strike. When you grip it, you don’t just wield a weapon—you carry a memory: of the sea’s old hunger, of a warrior’s loud heartbeat, and of a blade that was meant to carve legacies from the chaos of battle.