Knight's Elder Wood Trident

Knight's Elder Wood Trident rests on the weathered crate like a secret kept for years. The shaft is carved from elder wood, its grain whetted smooth by hands that knew how to coax life from stubborn timber. The wood wears a soft, nearly polished patina, the color a riverbank brown that catches the light with a warm, amber glow. Three tines rise from a slender head, each one tapered and gleaming with a quiet steel sheen, as if the sea itself were tempered into metal rather than born of flame. Runes circle the grip in a careful braid of characters that hint at old loyalties and long journeys; a leather wrap, cracked by weather and time, encircles the handle like a seed from a ship’s forgotten voyage. When you lift it, the wood sighs with the weight of memory, a tactile reminder that this is more than a weapon—it is a compass pointing toward old loyalties and new adventures. Lore chatter about the trident’s origins is less a story and more a tide, rising and receding with every harbor anecdote. It is said to be forged by a knight of the coastal order who patrolled river mouths and moonlit coves, guarding caravans from raiders who knew how to use the water as a weapon. The elder wood—the kind grown near ancient springs and salt-scorched dunes—was chosen not for beauty alone, but for patience. The trident’s three tines are said to symbolize balance: offense, defense, and the calm center a warrior must find when the tide turns suddenly. In tavern sings and market whispers, people swear the weapon hums softly when there’s loyalty in the air and a ship about to weigh anchor at dawn. In the heat of combat, the Knight's Elder Wood Trident feels like a conversation you can win with grace. Its reach keeps a foe at a measured distance, and its weight speaks to a practiced hand that can pivot from a rapid strike to a guarded stance in the blink of a gull’s eye. Players who favor spearplay find its balance especially forgiving for rapid parries and sweeping arcs that clear a path through skirmishes along a quay or a marshy outpost. There’s a marine memory to the way it flexes in the hands—like it remembers the spray from the tide and knows exactly how to channel that bite into a clean, precise thrust. It’s a tool well-suited to a life lived where land ends and water begins, a weapon that travels well with a shield and a traveler’s pack. Market days lend the trident a different kind of glow. I watched a trader unwrap it from a salt-streaked cloth, its wood smelling faintly of rain and resin. Nearby, the Saddlebag Exchange glowed with the glow of coins and stories, the price tag whispering of craftsmanship and risk alike. The old-timers murmured that a Knight's Elder Wood Trident could fetch a fair sum—enough to buy a boat’s rations for a season, enough to tempt a night-market wanderer into a long, hopeful negotiation. The deal would hinge on not just the metal and grain, but the legacy hooked to the wood—on the memory of a knight who rode the coastline’s edge and left behind a weapon that would keep its holder shipshape in storm or stillness. Leave it on the dock for a moment, and you feel the world tilt a touch toward the sea, toward a path that the Knight’s Elder Wood Trident knows by heart.