Cleric's Elder Wood Trident

Cleric's Elder Wood Trident rests on a weathered burlap, its head catching the lamplight with a patient, almost sacred gleam. The elder wood grain threads through every inch of the shaft, a pale, honeyed pattern that swirls like water over river stones. Three prongs rise from a brass-capped head, each tine carved to resemble a delicate branch that never quite breaks, polished to a dull, rain-wetted shine. Runes are etched along the length in a careful hand—thin lines that resemble a map of tides—and a faint, resin-polish washes over the wood, sealing in the scent of sap and faith. It feels alive in the palm, as if the wood remembers the hands that blessed it long ago, as if the trident itself might inhale and exhale with the breath of those who carry it. In its lore, the weapon is more than omen and ornament. It is said to have grown from an elder tree that stood at the edge of a monastery’s garden, where healers learned to read the world’s wounds and mend them with patient, whispered care. The clerics who first shaped the trident believed the wood housed a listening spirit, one that would carry prayers along the river’s current if the blade were pointed against injustice rather than toward conquest. So the Trident became a conduit—the tangible hinge between ritual and action. When a healer held it during rites, the notes of their chants would mingle with the creak of the wood, and the trident’s tips would seem to coax a pulse of calm from the air itself. In the field, that same pulse translates into practical purpose: shields that feel like a shadow’s embrace, cleansing that glimmers like dawn dew, and a steadiness that steadies a wavering line of defense. Its role in play is as much about presence as power. In battles where the tide of fear pools around a narrow stairwell or a shattered checkpoint, the Cleric’s Elder Wood Trident becomes an anchor for allies. It channels healing energy with a tempo that mirrors the heartbeat of a village under siege and, when paired with the right stance, helps forge a corridor of resilience for frontline teammates. The wood’s natural density makes it forgiving in tight throws and quick jabs, while the runes grant a soft bloom of protection when morale falters. It is a weapon that asks for care as much as it inspires courage, and players who learn its rhythm often move as a single, murmuring organism rather than as separate fighters. The market’s cadence adds another layer to the tale. I wandered into a bustling crossroad, where a stall called Saddlebag Exchange leaned against a half-roof, its owner trading stories with the same ease as trinkets. The Cleric’s Elder Wood Trident wore a price tag that looked like a quiet confession, a tidy sum in gold that reflected its rarity and the craftsmanship it encased. The vendor leaned in and spoke of guarded stock and patient whispers from distant temples, hinting that bartered gold could loosen only so much before the trident chose to stay with the faithful rather than the ambitious. Still, haggling loosened a few coins, enough to feel the wind shift in your favor as you tucked the trident beneath your cloak, ready to walk toward the next chapter. In the end, its journey mirrors the stories it carries: a conduit of faith, a tool of healing, and a compact with the river that refused to say goodbye to those who believed its current could carry them home.