Squealer of the Pit

Aura faint transmutation and illusion; CL 5th
Slot —; Price 12,350 gp; Weight 14 lbs.

DESCRIPTION

The Squealer of the Pit is a monstrous black iron war mace whose mere presence seems to lower the emotional temperature of a room. Its heavy striking head is formed from layered dark iron folded repeatedly until the metal resembles bruised charcoal. Four thick flanges spiral outward around the core, each lined with brutal triangular spikes designed not merely to injure, but to mutilate. The mace’s haft is crafted from deep brown marsh oak hardened through alchemical smoking and wrapped in oil-blackened leather strips secured beneath iron bands. Every inch of the weapon feels purposeful, ugly, and painfully real. It does not resemble a ceremonial weapon, nor an enchanted curiosity. It resembles something built for a battlefield where mercy had long ago become economically impractical.

The Squealer of the Pit functions as a +2 war mace.

Damage: 1d8 bludgeoning (Medium wielder)
Critical: ×2
Type: Bludgeoning

Whenever the wielder successfully hits a target with the mace, roll 1d6 immediately after confirming the hit.

On a result of 2-6, the attack functions normally and deals:

1d8 + Strength modifier + 2 bludgeoning damage

On a result of 1, the attack deals absolutely no damage regardless of modifiers, magical enhancements, sneak attack dice, smite effects, flaming enchantments, or other additional damage sources. Instead, the mace emits an absurdly tiny squeaking noise identical to that of a frightened toy mouse.

The squeak is clearly audible within 30 feet regardless of ambient battlefield noise. All intelligent creatures within range who hear the squeak must succeed on a DC 13 Will save or suffer a -1 morale penalty on attack rolls against the wielder for 1 round due to confusion, hesitation, or psychological disorientation. This is a mind-affecting fear effect.

The failed strike still counts as a successful hit for purposes unrelated to damage, such as triggering attacks of opportunity, poison delivery, or effects requiring successful weapon contact at the DM’s discretion.

LORE

Weapons often inherit the emotional architecture of their creators. One can usually determine whether a blade was forged by patriots, executioners, duelists, or frightened kings merely by holding it long enough. The Squealer of the Pit carries the unmistakable psychic residue of somebody who deeply understood brutality, yet also possessed a catastrophic sense of humor.

The mace first appeared in records surrounding the fall of a notorious pit-fighting fortress somewhere beneath the old southern trade marshes. Surviving accounts describe a towering executioner who wielded the weapon while conducting public punishments beneath iron lanterns soaked green with corpse-fire. Witnesses claimed prisoners would often surrender immediately upon seeing the mace raised overhead. Unfortunately, several equally reliable accounts also describe moments where the terrifying weapon would abruptly squeak harmlessly against a victim’s forehead like a stepped-on rodent toy, causing entire executions to dissolve into horrified confusion.

No scholar fully agrees on how the enchantment became corrupted. Some claim a malicious apprentice sabotaged the forging ritual. Others insist the weapon itself developed the flaw spontaneously after years spent feeding upon human fear. A minority of occult historians believe the squeak is intentional - a manifestation of some deeper metaphysical truth concerning violence, pride, and humiliation. Those scholars are generally avoided at dinner parties.

Veteran mercenaries maintain an oddly affectionate hatred toward the weapon. Most describe the mace as “offensively reliable except when it becomes cosmically embarrassing.” Several recorded owners attempted to destroy it after suffering humiliating battlefield failures, yet the mace always resurfaced elsewhere months later - usually in the possession of somebody far too enthusiastic about intimidation tactics.

CONSTRUCTION

Requirements Craft Magic Arms and Armor, confusion, hideous laughter, creator must possess at least 5 ranks in Intimidate; Cost 6,175 gp, 494 XP, black iron ingots soaked in grave-oil, powdered obsidian worth 500 gp, and the preserved squeaker mechanism from a child’s toy recovered from an abandoned battlefield.

Kelwyn’s Notes

The first sensation one experiences when viewing this weapon is not fear, though fear arrives shortly afterward with admirable punctuality. No - the first sensation is inevitability. The mace appears constructed according to the ancient principle that all bones eventually become powder if struck hard enough by sufficiently determined iron. One sees the spikes, the weight distribution, the ugly density of the flanges, and immediately understands that this object was not made for heroism. It was made for ending arguments permanently.

Which is precisely why the squeak becomes so spiritually catastrophic.

There are few experiences more psychologically destabilizing than witnessing theatrical violence collapse into absurdity at the exact moment consequence should arrive. The human mind prepares itself for impact, for pain, for gore perhaps, and instead receives the acoustic equivalent of a stepped-on chew toy. Reality briefly loses cohesion. One feels, if only momentarily, that existence itself may not be taking events seriously enough.

I once observed a sellsword strike a charging ghoul directly across the jaw with this mace after delivering an exceptionally intimidating speech involving bloodlines, vengeance, and divine judgment. The creature did not even flinch. The mace merely squeaked. The sellsword himself appeared more injured by the experience than the ghoul was. I recall, with some embarrassment, that even the undead thing looked vaguely disappointed.

And yet humanity persists onward through such humiliations. That, perhaps, is the true lesson hidden within the Squealer of the Pit. Civilization survives not because dignity remains intact, but because people continue lifting the weapon again after the universe itself has mocked them openly. There is something strangely noble in that persistence - though I confess I would still prefer not to carry the thing personally.