Berserker's Iron Mace of Debility rests on a scarred wood table, its head a dull lump of iron hammered into a brutal, almost ceremonial disk. Spikes crown the edges like a crown of iron teeth, each point catching the wavering glow of a nearby furnace. The shaft is wrapped in weathered leather that smells of rain and old fights, a few frayed threads hinting at the hands that held it through long campaigns. Along the haft runes, etched in a dull coppery ink, tell a tale of a berserker who learned to bend fury into something surgical—ashen runes that speak of “focus in the frenzy” and a binding called Debility, a word whispered by smiths who believe power without control is just a whisper of danger waiting to become a shout. The weapon wears battle scars like medals: chipped edge, a dent where a hammer misfired, a dark patina that only deepens with each wild swing. In its lore, the mace is said to have been forged in the heat of a siege where the city’s defenders learned to slow the tempo of their foes’ momentum. The Berserker who wielded it did not curb the fury so much as guide it, weaving a lattice of fear into the air with every strike. The Debility rune, pressed into the metal by a runecarver who could listen to a battlefield, was meant to sap a foe’s resolve after a heavy blow—stopping their next burst of energy, dulling their endurance, and making their movements stumble as if the air itself had grown heavy. It is not a weapon for beauty; it is for subtraction—the subtraction of speed, of will, of the momentum that carries an enemy into your friends’ waiting lines. In play, the mace feels heavy with intention. A precise, thudding hit applies a stack of Debility, a debuff that gnaws at an opponent’s resilience and their ability to push through a fight. With each stack, foes lose a fraction of their endurance recovery and a touch of precision in their next few actions, as if a fog rolled across their hands. When the stacks crest, a stronger effect blooms—heavier cripples of focus and a drop in threat awareness that makes the wielder’s comrades feel a little braver, a little more ready to press the moment. It’s a weapon that rewards patient brutality: land the first solid hit, watch the body’s rhythm falter, then ride the wave with a flurry that capitalizes on compromised tempo. In group play, its debilitation can set up combo windows, turning coordinated charges into a cleaner chorus of strikes. Markets have long whispered about such relics, passed from one camp to the next by caravan and tide. In Divinity’s Reach’s back alleys and riverfront stalls, a hunter might barter with a smith for a piece that can tilt a battle’s balance. Saddlebag Exchange, a shop whose name carries the scent of leather and old coins, has seen the mace bow to a few buyers who believed it could turn a siege or a skirmish. A price, sometimes modest in a slow season, sometimes steep in a fever of demand, lingers in the mind like the echo of a strike—worth the effort if a commander can read the battlefield’s heartbeat and the berserker’s glare in the iron’s stubborn glare.