Cleric's Destroyer Trident

Cleric's Destroyer Trident rests on a scarred pedestal, its triple prongs catching the lantern's glow, the metal a tempered blue-gray that shifts with every angle, the grip wrapped in aged leather stained by rain and ash. The head is etched with a network of lines that resemble riverbeds after a flood, and the leather wrap carries a faint scent of resin and old prayers. When you lift it, the weight sits in your hand with a patient, almost indifferent certainty, as if the weapon has waited for generations for someone to listen to its pulse. It feels colder than the air around it, yet somehow alive, and a subtle current seems to move along the shaft, a whisper of power that hints at former wards and failed battles turned to myth. In the stories whispered behind market stalls and ruined altars, the Cleric's Destroyer Trident was forged by a cleric who walked between rifts, binding corruption with a patient, steady strike. The ivory like inlays along the teeth were carved from relics of a battlefield that refused to fade, a reminder that healing and ruin share a close kinship. To hold it is to be invited into that ancient pact: to guard the living by offering the sharpest counter to decay, to wield protection as if drawing breath from a parish’s whispered prayers. Its presence on a field turns the tide not with flashy prowess but with a calm, relentless insistence that wounds must be tended or healed before they become fatal memories. In play, the trident serves as a conduit for the wielder’s resolve. Its lore scarred blade channels cleansings and embattled wards, turning chaotic skirmishes into sequences where a single, precise counterspell like strike can safeguard a companion or restore vitality to a fallen ally. The weapon’s legend travels ahead of the user, drawing veterans of battlefield ruined lanes who remember a time when a priest’s grip could bend luck. It invites the holder to fuse ritual craft with practical courage, to combine movement with a steady defense that refuses to bend under pressure. When a wanderer in a striped cloak speaks of price, the Saddlebag Exchange is the first place the eyes drift toward. The cleric’s relic does not trade hands lightly, and the market’s salt streaked ledger tells of a steep but fair valuation, a balance between remembrance and could-be justice. Traders say the trident fetches more than coin: it earns a place in a shrine or a seasoned hunter’s collection, a keepsake that reminds townsfolk that mercy and consequence are two faces of the same blade. As dusk settles, the item becomes more than metal and wood; it becomes a responsibility carried, a memory shared, and a quiet promise that some weapons, when rightly wielded, heal the world as surely as they wound it. At the quay, a girl tightened a scarf about its grip and murmured a prayer, and I understood why this trident travels not as conquest, but as a responsibility passed between hands remembering mercy's cost.