Knight's Elder Wood Trident

Knight's Elder Wood Trident rests on the worn oak table, its head catching the lamplight with a patient gleam. The three tines pry upward like dew-kissed reeds, each edge smooth as a ship’s hull after a loyal scrubbing. The shaft is a deep, honey-dark elder wood, its grain a storm-tossed map that seems to ripple when you tilt it just so. Bronze bands cinch the neck, catching the glow and throwing it back in small, thoughtful sparks. A crest—a knight’s shield over an anchor, rimmed with salt-stung filigree—is etched along the palm-swept grip, the lines precise as a compass’s needle. Wrapped leather spirals near the pommel, worn soft by hands that have known long voyages and longer waits, and a faint, sea-salted aroma clings to it, as if the trident carries the harbor’s breath with it wherever it goes. The elder wood itself seems to tell a patient, patient story. Locals say that this timber grew where the sea’s memory rests—along the edge of a harbor grove where tides carve the night into fishbone patterns, where sailors prayed for fair winds and stubborn dawns. The Knight who wielded it is spoken of in tavern whispers as both guardian and witness: a drifter who chose to stand between a moonlit pier and the black depths, a protector of fishermen, rafts, and reef-streaked couriers. The weapon’s lore is not merely in its beauty but in the oath it carried, carved into the runes that shimmer faintly under moonlight and salt spray, as if the wood itself remembers every oath whispered in the spray of waves and every hand that ever clasped its grip. In combat, the trident feels like a conversation between reach and resolve. Its long form allows a careful, rippling tempo—to pin a foe at the edge of the crowd, to twist a line of brackish air into a shield of momentum, to slip past a skirmish’s flurry and strike where a defender least expects. Those who study its lore speak of a tide-sense that awakens when the shore is near; when the wind shifts and brine thickens, the trident’s runes glow a little brighter, granting a moment of clarity or a breath so long it helps an ally keep their footing. It is said the blade’s heart beats in time with the sea’s own pulses, rewarding patience, courage, and a willingness to listen to the harbor’s quiet, persistent stories. Market days bring the clamor of wheels and the chorus of bartered goods, and here the Knight’s Elder Wood Trident travels between hands as if it were a living message. I’ve watched weary merchants haggle the price, their fingers tracing the runes’ glow while the coins clink like distant bells. They speak of Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling nook where buyers and sellers meet beneath colored banners, where a tale about the trident’s last owner can tilt the day’s negotiation. A fair price there isn’t fixed, not by weather, not by moon—but by the weight of history, by the trust someone places in the wood’s memory and the harbor’s mercy. In the end, the trident is more than metal and bark. It’s a narrative you can hold: of storms survived, of guardians who kept vigil over a coastline, and of a world where even a weapon remembers every wave it has faced and every oath it has carried ashore.