Cleric's Pearl Trident

Cleric's Pearl Trident rests on the table with a patient gleam, its head a pale, almost living thing—an orb of pearl that seems to breathe with faint, moonlit glow. The tines fan out like delicate seashell petals, tempered steel catching lamplight in little rainbows as if the weapon itself remembered every tide it ever met. The shaft is a deep, oiled wood, worn smooth by hands that have held it in prayer and in battle, carved with sigils that curl like curling waves and grain that runs as steady as a good compass. A silver filigree snakes along the haft, catching the light and throwing it back in inlaid stars, while a wrap of sea-green leather grips the balance just beneath the hand. If you cradle it, you can feel the pearl’s cold heartbeat, a measured hum that seems to synchronize with your own breathing, the weapon telling you to slow, listen, heal. Lore has braided itself into the trident’s sheen. It’s said the pearl formed from a drop of quiet rain shed by a monastery’s bell during a storm that refused to end, a storm that tested the faith of fishermen and healers alike. Some whisper that the trident was blessed by a shore-bound order of clerics who learned to bend water and will into tides of care, turning raw fear into steady calm. Others insist the pearl holds memories of sailors who laid their lives on the swell and woke to find the trident waiting, as if the sea herself had tucked away a shield for the weary and the righteous. Whatever the truth, the weapon carries a quiet authority—as if mercy had been forged into metal, forged into a weapon to spare those who would otherwise be struck by sorrow. In the world’s restless clockwork, the Cleric's Pearl Trident feels like more than a rare drop or a gleaming novelty. Its presence reshapes a healer’s rhythm: the moment it is drawn, a soft, cleansing pulse travels outward, mending wounds as if the ocean itself stoops to kiss the hurt and pull it back to shore. Its most distinct spellwork folds protective over allies, weaving a translucent tide that shields the vulnerable and buffs the steadfast, while a follow-up surge releases a healing current that cuts through fatigue and fear. For coordinators of siege, it’s a signal flare—when the rally cries rise, the trident answers by granting steadiness to the line and clarity to the mind. For those who walk both holy and iron-wrought paths, the trident becomes a steady partner, a reminder that power can be tempered by mercy, that in healing there is also a kind of defense. Price, in the market’s bright glare, carries its own story. I watched a quiet conversation unfold at Saddlebag Exchange, where a merchant and a patient buyer weighed not only coin but the weight of history. The trader spoke of demand for something with a calm, sea-stilled heft, a relic that could anchor a party as much as a hand. The buyer, fingers brushed with salt-stained leather, nodded and counted coin, aware that some wares are less about what they do and more about what they remind us to do: tend, protect, endure. And so the Cleric's Pearl Trident passes from hand to hand, its pearl inner withstanding the grind of salt and time, a reminder that mercy can be a blade as sure as any edge, and that even in a world of fire and forge, there are tides we can ride together.