Carrion Elder Wood Trident

The Carrion Elder Wood Trident rests on a scarred pedestal, its head a trio of prongs that fan like the talons of some long-dead shorebird. The wood is elder—dark as a moonless night, with a grain that swirls like old smoke in a kiln. Each prong bears delicate runes carved with patient care, lines that catch the lamplight and throw it back as a whisper of bone-white ink. The haft is wrapped in weathered leather, stitched with copper threads that have darkened to a warm patina, and at the base a bead carved from a dried carrion bone sits like a small, patient skull. A resin glaze seals the surface, giving it a brittle gloss that makes the weapon look both ancient and alive, as if it might twitch whenever a tide of rot rises from the earth. It carries the scent of damp woods and distant graves, a smell that clings to the fingers of anyone who dares to pick it up. lore threads tangle with its appearance: the elder tree after which it's named grows in damp, shadowed groves near old plague pits, a tree that feeds on memory and sorrow. The trident’s maker, rumor says, was a hermit who traded whispers with scavengers and fiends alike, coaxing movement from the dead by channeling the tree’s stubborn vitality through three keen points. To hold it is to touch a lineage of rites, a pledge to stand between the living and the things that would harvest them. When drawn, it seems to hum with a quiet electricity, not loud enough to alarm the market, but persistent as a memory that won’t fade. In the world where it travels, the trident is not only a weapon but a tool with a stubborn practicality. Its three prongs can deflect and spear in one smooth motion, keeping skittish foes at the edge of reach while the wielder searches for openings in armor or wards. It suits those who walk the line between hunter and healer, the kind who treat every strike as a reply to a quiet question: what must be done to preserve what remains? Players who favor a close-quarters dance find the trident’s balance satisfying—the way a single precise thrust can pin a marauder and a sweeping arc can sweep filth and rot from the air. It is a weapon for ritual-soldiers: it can sever the line between a troop’s shield and its heart, or strike at a foe that pauses to cough out a pustulous breath. In practical terms, its reach and control allow the wielder to command space, to trap and to retreat gracefully, turning the tide in cramped corridors or on stormy docks. Market narratives thread through its life as well. A sailor-merchant once traded this very piece under a tar-black sky at Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans dock and barter beneath lanterns that swing like pendulums over endless chatter. The vendor weighed its age against its weight in stories, tracing the runes with oil-stained fingers and muttering about the resin’s integrity and the leather’s wear. The price rose and fell in whispers, sometimes helped along by a curled note promising rare spices or salvaged relics. It’s not simply a transaction; it’s a crossing of paths—the trader’s habit, the maker’s memory, the buyer’s need—and the Carrion Elder Wood Trident ends up traveling with them, reminding everyone who touches it that some tools carry the weight of a world that won’t be repaired with a single well-placed strike.