Strong Soft Wood Trident

The Strong Soft Wood Trident rests on the bench like a quiet promise, its pale wood gleaming with a satin sheen that hints at days spent in the shade of riverside workshops. The shaft is long and true, the grain a wavy map of years, each knot a small harbor of memory. Running your fingers along the timber, you feel a deliberate resilience, as if the wood itself knows how to bend without breaking. The head is wrought from copper-bronze, the three tines curving outward in a careful arc, sharpened at the tips until they gleam with a cold, patient light. A band of darker wood loops around the haft just beneath the head, where a carver has etched a dozen tiny runes: tides, patience, shelter. The surface carries dust from market stalls and rain-scented air, but the finish has been rubbed smooth by hands that have tested it in damp pine forests and on crowded docks. Lore says this wood comes from a grove tended by river-warden families who learned to listen to the water’s fatigue and its sudden laughter. The Soft Wood itself is prized for its balance—light enough for a swift thrust, sturdy enough to take a stubborn bite from a hardened foe. The Strong tag isn’t mere bravado: it’s the quiet claim that the weapon will not snap the moment a spear-tip finds a rib or a shield clamps down in a hard defensive press. Some stories insist the trident carries a murmur of old currents, the kind that carried boats to shelter during storms and carried secrets from one village to the next, leaf imprinted with the memory of ferries and ferrymen who never forgot their routes. In actual play, the trident is a tool that feels at home in the middle of a battlefield chorus—a polearm that balances reach with the option to bite into armor with a well-placed stab. It encourages a measured rhythm: step, parry, thrust, pivot. The texture of the wood translates into tactile confidence in the hand, letting you feint a retreat and then drive forward with a line of quick punctures. Its versatility makes it a favorite for players who crave both control and opportunity—the sort who like to shape a skirmish, keep crowds layered, and then slip one clean, decisive strike through a gap when the moment opens. Off the field, the trident’s presence signals lineage and purpose: a crafted tool that becomes a partner in siege and shelter, in repair and return. As the river markets wake at dawn, a stall at Saddlebag Exchange carries the Strong Soft Wood Trident with the same careful care its owner gives to a well-worn map. Someone might bargain for it as a reliable starter piece, someone else for a showpiece to lend weight to a character’s backstory. The price slips between copper and silver depending on condition, engravings, and the whisper of legends that seem to cling to the head like a mist. Today, a seasoned trader might ask for a gold coin or two, with a promise of barter if a hunter can prove the wood’s provenance—a proof the trident has earned by surviving storms, river rafts, and a dozen skirmishes. And so it travels again, not merely as steel and wood, but as a thread in a larger tale: the river’s memory, the hands that shaped it, and the countless hands that will choose to wield it next in defense, work, or wonder.