Rampager's Iron Mace rests on a scarred market table, its head a broad, square-faced slab of iron hammered with a hundred tiny facets that catch the light like battle-worn teeth. The metal wears a dull, honest sheen, pitted where age met use, with a thin line of resin-dark lacquer along the spine to keep the weather from nibbling away at its memory. The haft is ash-dark wood, swollen slightly at the grip and wrapped in cracked leather that has yielded to countless thumbs and palms, the guard a copper ferrule glinting with a faint green patina. A runic glyph, a leaping wolf pressed into the grip, seems to hum when the breeze blows across the market—an echo of the creature the blade once hunted and perhaps respected. They say it was forged in the camps of the Rampagers, a company of scouts and berserkers who moved like storms across the frontier. The weapon’s weight feels deliberate, as if the smith meant the mace to pin an enemy in place long enough for a hunter’s second breath. Some travelers claim the iron head bears the memory of a dozen failed charges, then one clean, decisive moment when the spearhead of a squad yielded to the blunt, unyielding resolve of this very tool. It carries a rumor that the Rampagers tempered it with patience rather than brute force, allowing the weapon to deliver slow, crushing getaways from chaos rather than quick, flashy finishes—though it remains, in truth, a tool for ending close-quarters skirmishes with devastating certainty. In actual play, the Rampager's Iron Mace feels like a companion at the edge of a brawl. Its one-handed heft makes it ideal for front-line skirmishes, where a shield-bearing companion creates space while the mace punches through armor and disrupts enemies who rely on momentum. Its blunt strike invites targets to cede ground, breaking their footing and widening the window for follow-up blows. The mace’s rhythm favors the line-breaker: quick, heavy hits that stagger and set up vulnerability, followed by a brutal, deliberate finish. In the right hands, it becomes a story of momentum—chargers pulled from a column, mobs pinned to the ground where the scent of iron and leather mixes with shouted orders and the thud of boots. Market whispers linger around this piece as well. Its price drifts with the market’s mood, a fact of life in any bazaar where guarded items and rare finds travel from hand to hand. In the bustling stalls and back-alley stalls of the Saddlebag Exchange, a well-worn Rampager’s Iron Mace might fetch a modest sum, a few gold pieces that buyers haggle over with the same care they apply to any artifact carrying a name. A pristine example, polished and unscuffed, can command more, as would befit any blade that has endured the kind of campaign stories people tell around fires and taverns. So the mace goes on, not merely as a weapon but as a thread in a larger web: a relic of brutal hunts, a tool that shapes the wars it helps win, and a tangible link between the men who forged a name for themselves and the markets that continue to tell its tale.