Rampager's Iron Mace of Smoldering sits on the workbench like a buried ember waiting for a spark. Its head is a blunt, iron oval, scorched along the rim, with lines of molten metal running through runic etchings. The surface is a tapestry of heat scars, each dent telling a story of a battlefield where iron gave as good as it took. A long, stout haft wraps in aged leather, stitched with copper threads that catch the light as you turn it. The grip is warm to the palm, as if the weapon still holds the memory of a furnace's breath. A chain of small rivets runs from the head to the butt, a reminder that this mace travels with more than strength — it travels with history. The scent of smoke clings to the steel, not from recent flame but from a promise of it, a simmer that hints at the weapon's fiery soul. The inscription along the spine whispers a name: Smoldering, a title earned by those who faced down ash and fury and spoke back with iron will. When you lift it, balance shifts with the certainty of a seasoned tool. The mace favors close-quarters strikes, a short, brutal arc that cracks shields and broken protections alike. In combat it hums with a fire-themed cadence, a reminder that steel and flame can be allies, not enemies. The 'Rampager's' tag is more than a badge; it signals the weapon's allegiance to ruthless efficiency, to the pride of those who trade raw force for precise, punishing blows. The 'Smoldering' suffix promises more than glow: it hints at additional burn on impact, a sear that threads into the next moments of a fight, leaving foes dancing on the edges of a fading ember. In the hands of the right warrior, the mace is a chapter in a larger story — a wandering blacksmith's quest, a caravan's defense through ash-ridden passes, a rallying cry for a fractured camp. It becomes a tool for survival, a totem of resolve, and a reminder that every piece of gear has a tale that outlives the user. Market days find it in the glow of twilight at Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle with wary smiles and chalk-dusted fingers. A vendor counts out coins, the balance of gold and silver glinting as he peels back a price: a fair sum, reasonable enough to tempt a wary buyer, generous enough to reward a bold one. The price tag lands somewhere between promise and risk, enough to turn a curious buyer into a wearer of fire. Long after its first fire-blooming strike, Rampager's Iron Mace of Smoldering sits in a camp chest or on a mantle, a talisman of heat and steel. Legends migrate through memory, and those who tell them often choose this weapon as their starting spark, their stubborn reminder that even in the darkest days, a single ember can become a blaze. So the mace travels onward with its bearer, through markets, alleys, and ruined towers, where the ember cools into memory and memory into legend, until the next wielder finds it warm again and begins anew, passing fire from hand to hand.