Berserker's Iron Mace of Force sits on a dusky wooden table, its iron head bruise-dark and glinting where the forge's heat kissed it. The surface is scored with dozen-dimensioned lines, each groove catching the light in a way that makes the tool feel almost alive. A leather-wrapped handle coils into bronze-nicked grips, and a pale sigil threads along the time-worn shaft, a Force rune that seems to breathe when you tilt your wrist. The mace's weight is tempered, not clumsy, but balanced as if the craftsman knew the moment a warrior would leap forward and commit to momentum. When you lift it, the air itself seems to gather, a cold pressure that hints at the power slumbering inside the iron. Its lore speaks of a band of berserkers who rode into a besieged fortress wielding weapons that could fracture stone and will alike. They claimed this mace as a last-ditch gift from a veteran smith who had learned to temper rage with purpose, fastening the Force sigil to guide the fury into disciplined blows. Tales say the weapon sang on the nights of blood, and those who listened could feel a calm center open beneath the roar of battle. In calmer hands, the same rune remains a quiet reminder that strength without focus is only noise; with focus, it becomes leverage against fear itself. The chain of stories threads into every grinding step of its journey, from the forges to the markets, and then into the hands of skirmishers who learn to read the weapon's breath. In play, the Berserker's Iron Mace of Force rewards proximity and bold decisions. It favors front-rank clashes, where a single, aimed swing can fracture a foe's resolve as well as their armor. The Force infusion gives a subtle crash of energy on crits, a pulse that ripples through nearby allies and sparks follow-up strikes. It is not a wand for patient hunters or long-range snipers; it is a tool for those who want to carve a path through chaos. Warriors describe it as a companion that steadies the heart when the shield-wall breaks and the world seems to tilt. Blacksmiths have long warned that power of this degree needs respect, because a misjudged lunge can awake the Force rune to draw in more of the battlefield's attention than you bargained for. Caravans still bring such pieces to markets, and the Saddlebag Exchange, with its chalked boards and coin-splashed counters, often houses the most telling conversations about price. A buyer might haggle over shimmer and weight, arguing that the sigil is nearly spent, then walk away with a handful of gold and a story to tell. Others, hearing the history, pay a premium for the chance to wield a weapon that has walked the road between rage and reason. If you listen to its hum long enough, you hear not just a blade, but history guiding you toward next chapter in world’s struggle for force and speed.