Cleric's Elder Wood Trident

Cleric's Elder Wood Trident gleams in a beam of late afternoon light, its shaft carved from elder wood as pale as bone and as dense as old prayers. The grain spirals with sly weather, and the spikes at the head are wrought in a soft, sun-warmed bronze that has picked up a patient green patina from many sea-wind days. Runes thread the length: water, cleansing, protection, a whispered litany spoken in a language kept by candlelight. A leather wrap coils the grip, worn smooth by hands that have steadied weary pilgrims and argued with stubborn rivers. The head’s facets catch light differently with every tilt, and the whole thing carries the faint scent of resin and brine — a scent that makes you think of sanctuaries built near the surf and of clerics who tend the sick with quiet, stubborn resolve. It’s more than a weapon; it’s a vessel for a creed, a sign of a lineage that values healing as fiercely as any blade. In the game-world, that symbolism translates into a practical rhythm. Those who wield the Cleric’s Elder Wood Trident lean into support first, guiding allies through skirmishes with cleansing waves of energy that push off torment, mend wounded morale, and invite beleaguered fighters to stand their ground. Its reach is understated but precise, a reminder that healing and protection can be as decisive as any strike. The weapon’s lore ties it to river temple sanctums where priests tended not only wounds but hopes, drawing down a pale blue glow during ritual moments that feel almost like breath between heartbeats. When you swing it, you sense the old pact at work: the elder wood remembers the river’s currents, and those currents remember you. That sense of history makes the trident a favorite in barter and curiosity as well. Traders argue over provenance the way climbers argue over weather forecasts, listening for small changes in tone rather than big boasts. When I visited Saddlebag Exchange, the market’s denizens shuffled through waxed purses and map-strewn stalls, murmuring about condition, grip thickness, and the depth of the sigils worked into the wood. Prices drift with mood and memory: a solid specimen can fetch a tidy handful of gold, while a more worn piece—scarred by long voyages and temple repairs—drops into the silver tier, still valued for its narrative heft. The Exchange’s chatter frames the Trident not as a mere tool but as a ledger of journeys: every dent is a story, every rune a memory. So the Cleric’s Elder Wood Trident remains a bridge between sanctuaries and skirmish, between the whispered prayers of old and the braced advance of the present. It asks to be used with care, to be held as both shield and story, and to be carried, like a reminder, for the roads that wind between memory and this moment. Some nights, the elder wood hums when moonlight touches its head, and those who listen swear the trident guides choices, steadying hands that would tremble at danger.