Berserker's Hard Wood Trident

Berserker's Hard Wood Trident rests on a weathered oak pedestal, its shaft a dense mahogany that gleams with a quiet satin in torchlight. The head is carved from a deeper, almost obsidian-dark wood, three tines curving outward like wind-carved spears, their edges honed to a pale, mineral gleam. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, the stitching frayed but stubborn, the wrap smelling faintly of pine resin and old rain. A faint groove runs along the haft, where a shallow inscription has begun to blur with use: a mark the smith swore would sing if the owner’s rage ever found its rhythm again. The surface wears tiny nicks and scorch marks, each a note in a story that began long before the current owner lifted it from a stall at dawn. Lore whispers that this trident did not begin as a mere weapon but as a totem from a berserker captain who rode the storm-washed shores with a crew no map could chart. They say the wood was torn from a stubborn grove spared by ash and surf, the grain memory-fed by sea-winds and the echo of shouted commands. Some caravans insist the weapon carries a temper of its own, a heartbeat that quickens when the harbor bells toll and the tide turns. In taverns and workshops across the coast, old smiths claim the trident hums when the sea calls, and sailors swear that a good wind will shift its balance just enough to let a bold hand find the perfect stroke. In the world where the blade meets the weather, this is more than a pretty relic. It is a tool of choice for those who stand between hull and hell, the skirmishers and frontline spears who want reach without sacrificing the blunt bite of a heavy strike. Its two-handed heft and mid-range reach give a tempo to combat, letting a wielder keep distance while still hammering through serried foes. The wood’s density translates into a steady, reassuring weight that anchors each thrust, while the three tines offer a sly misdirection—a way to catch an opponent stepping into the line of a follow-up swing or to brush aside a shield to expose the target’s ribs. It embodies the berserker’s core: disciplined offense, unleashed with care, a reminder that power must be channeled as much as it is raw. The trident also travels a broader story. Blacksmiths who forged it dispatched it with a blade-craft whisper that it would always return to the sea and the road alike, carried by traders and raiders, by stories told in markets as much as on battlefield fog. It is not just a weapon but a talisman that fits into a larger arc—one where a lone fighter moves from village square to port-side stall, stitching together victories with bargains and favors. Speaking of bargains, a broker at Saddlebag Exchange already has its tale priced in coins and time. The stall’s owner sizes up the trident, tracing the grain with rough fingers, and the leather-wrapped grip creaks in approval as if the wood itself approves the trade. The price floats in the air between value and memory, and the exchange is a quiet chorus of clinking coins and nodding heads, where such a piece shifts hands not merely for gold but for the chance to carry forward a story of storms, fury, and the old road that leads back to the sea.