Cleric's Krait Trident

Cleric's Krait Trident gleams under lamplight, its head a sinuous, serpent-hood of three prongs, curved like fangs and set with inlaid mother-of-pearl that shifts from emerald to cobalt as the angle changes. The shaft is wrapped in rope-like filigree, a pale green bonework that feels cool to the touch, ridged with tiny scales that whisper when you brush past them. The weapon carries the scent of brine and old sanctuaries; runic sigils creep along the length, tiny notches that map old oaths more than they do miles. When you tilt it toward the water, the surface seems to lean closer, as if the blade itself remembers tides it never saw but always trusted. Legends say the trident was born from a cleric who walked the shoreline where krait and sunlit foam met the old rites, a pact between mercy and the sea. The cleric tempered faith with currents, blessing allies who stood in the spray and turning curses aside in whispers of foam. The three prongs are more than weapons; they are channels for healing and warding, a living myth bound to a survivor's vow. In quiet moments, the scales along the head pulse faintly, as if the ocean itself exhaled through the metal. In combat or during expedition, the Cleric's Krait Trident serves as a conduit for the wielder's support power, amplifying healing touches, amplifying cleansing of conditions, and granting a temporary shield of brine-light to nearby companions. It is favored by guardians and healers who walk between currents of danger and diplomacy, boats and brigades. Its lore is stitched into shipboard tales and temple corridors, where it ferries the memory of those saved by a calm word and a stronger will. The trident's presence in a party turns the tide not with flashy strikes but with measured breaths and a steady pulse, a reminder that mercy can be a weapon of formidable reach. Market stalls tell their own story. In the bustling aisles near Saddlebag Exchange, a trader will trade stories as readily as metal, and a Cleric's Krait Trident might change hands for gold coins or a cache of relics, depending on the buyer's willingness to listen to its history. The item glows a notch brighter when it has passed through seaworn hands and been tested in the spray of a moment's crisis. For some, it's a badge of honor, for others a tool for healing caravans, and for a few it's a key to a larger corridor of quests that threads through coastal towns and temple harbors alike. Thus the trident remains, not simply a piece of equipment but a living strand in a larger story—the cleric who spoke to the sea and the sailors who carried the memory ashore, the pact between mercy and danger, the world continuing to hinge on those small acts of courage performed with patient hands and a weapon that remembers the tide. Its call lingers in harbors after the last bell rings, a quiet invitation to stand watch when the night grows cold.