Rampager's Iron Mace of Rage gleams with a heat-warped sheen, its iron head pitted from countless clashes, a crown of stubborn rivets running along the hammer-face and a broad silhouette that remembers every fall. The shaft is wrapped in weather-dark leather that creaks softly when swung, and a thin chain dangles from the butt, catching the light like a captured spark. Runic gratings along the head hiss faintly when the weapon is raised, as if the metal itself remembers the cry of battle. The name is etched in rough, almost furious strokes, a reminder that rage tempered this tool into something precise as a thought and as merciless as a storm on a quiet harbor. Some say the iron was drawn from the remnants of a siege cannon, beaten into a mace by a smith who swore to temper fury into focus; others insist the weapon carries an echo of a rampager clan that once carved a path through a treaty line, leaving scorch and witness marks on every stone. In hands, it feels denser than ordinary iron, heavier at the head, and it lands with a thud that slides through the nerves as much as mail. It is a weapon built for the close, where every strike is a sentence and every follow-through a verdict. When swung, the mace seems to carry a pulse, a red heartbeat that rises with the wielder’s own anger, turning a practiced feint into a decisive crush. The lore-built edge glows faintly when the user’s rage peaks, as if the weapon feeds on the heat of the moment, then releases it in a brutal, sweeping arc. This is not merely a tool of brute force; it is a narrative piece, a character’s signature, a badge of a fighter who chooses to stand on the front line and bend will into impact. So the mace travels through villages and camps, a rumor in the air that hard, honest damage can be as dramatic as any ballad. In the clans and mercenary bands that cross the map, such weapons become part of a wider story: a symbol that courage can be bought, earned, and wielded, sometimes as a promise to protect a weary camp or to topple a stubborn shield wall. For gearheads and garrison scouts alike, Rampager's Iron Mace of Rage is a reminder that power can be crisp, not chaotic, if tempered by a careful hand. It finds its way into the hands of those who understand the tempo of battle, where timing matters more than noise, and where a single, well-placed blow can tilt the field in a moment of perfect focus. Markets, too, keep the rumor alive, with traders debating its true worth as if reading a weathered omen. A battered tag at Saddlebag Exchange—scratched in chalk and inked with the sweat of a hundred nights—marks out a price that invites a careful buyer: not merely coins, but the kind of trade that seals a partnership between wanderers who know the road’s every crack and crevasse.