Berserker's Seer Mask of the Pack rests on a scarred oak table, a bone-white visage lacquered to a burnished amber that catches the lamplight and seems to breathe with a slow, predatory glow. Its eye sockets are hollow, polished to a pitch-black depth that hints at something unfathomable behind the mask, as if the wearer peers through time itself. A browline of jagged, ivory-tine teeth runs along the seams, and a fringe of wolf-hair sways from the lower edge, giving the thing the feel of a snarl you can almost smell. Leather straps, threaded with copper rivets and worn smooth by years of use, cinch behind the head, while a faint leather scent—sun-warmed hide, resin, and old rain—lingers in the air as though the mask has been waiting for this moment to speak. The craftsmanship carries a story in its grain. Along the cheeks, glyphs of a wolf-pack glimmer in a lacquered script, tracing a breadcrumb trail from omen to action. Lore says the Seer who wore this mask moved with a troupe, tracing the wind’s patterns and reading treetop signals as if they were a map to kin and conquest. The Pack, a wandering order that stitched prophecy to predation, hunted not just for sport but for understanding—the moment when a decision becomes fate. When this mask was woven into that tradition, it did more than conceal a face; it announced a bond: you fight as one, you read the road as a chorus, and you let the pack’s voice surge through you in the heat of battle. In practical terms, it is a piece that invites a player to lean into a merciless, forward-pressing style. Wearers speak of the mask’s effect as a mood, not a statistic: a sudden sharpening of perception, a kinship with the surge of melee tempo, a sense that each strike is part of a larger, roaring conversation with your allies and your enemies. It sits well on Berserker builds, those who prize aggression and the raw rhythm of a charge. The mask’s aura feels like a reminder to take risks with discipline—to bite down on the moment, feed it courage, and let the pack’s courage propel the play. It’s not merely about brute harm; it’s about alignment—the way a single mask can crystallize a player’s approach into something that feels like fate in motion. In that sense, the mask becomes a character arc you carry with you, a talisman of trust between hunter and hunted, between lone wanderer and the shared heartbeat of the pack. Market days bring its own punctuation to the tale. I heard the mask traded in whispered bursts at Saddlebag Exchange, where stories about scarcity and desirability drift like coins in a fountain. A piece such as this—beautiful and slightly weathered—has a reputation to command, and sellers price it with the weather of the week in mind: a shimmer of premium when the demand is high, a notch lower when quiet hunters drift toward other legends. A traveler once told me he watched a pristine copy fetch a king’s ransom in gold, while a more maneuvered, well-worn version settled into a modest, almost friendly price range, as if inviting a new owner to earn their place in the pack. Holding the mask, you feel the world tighten its focus: the road ahead narrows to a line of breath and iron, and somewhere, in the lungs of the world, the pack is howling. It’s a piece that isn’t merely worn; it’s lived in, a companion that dares you to step closer to the edge and listen for the omen the wind carries.