Cleric's Hard Wood Trident

Cleric's Hard Wood Trident sits on a sun-warmed shelf, its shaft carved from a single stubborn block of riverwood, the grain winding like a map of old rivers beneath a satin gloss. The head, three pronged and elegant, tapers to sharp, patient points, its surfaces smoothed by years of ritual handling and careful use. The wood wears a honeyed patina, rings pressed into the surface by countless hands, and along the length run sigils burned in a pale resin — circle and thread and careful sigil-work that glow faintly when the moonlight slides across the grain. At the base, a small inset of pale stone catches the eye, a relic from a vow kept by clerics who blessed wells and navigated rivers with little more than steady breath and steady hands. It feels almost alive in the room, as if the wood remembers the footsteps of the healers who once stood in circles to offer protection and blessing. To hold it is to sense a deliberate calm, a conduit rather than a mere tool. The trident’s heft grounds the wearer, inviting a balance between offense and care. Its reach is generous, but its true strength lies in what it asks the wielder to do: channel patience, extend protection, and direct healing with a measured, almost ceremonial tempo. In practice, wielding this trident means moving with a steadier rhythm, signaling allies as much as striking foes, and letting the line breathe again under a soft, healing cadence. It becomes a companion in moments when a frontline needs a pause as a circle of warmth spreads out, mending minor wounds and staving off the worst of the storm. Wielders often report that the trident’s wood drinks in the mood of the group, amplifying a shared resolve and turning a tense push into a coordinated, hopeful surge. Myriad stories cling to it in the market as well as in battle. On a damp dawn I followed a caravan to Saddlebag Exchange, where the air smelled of wax, tar, and old leather and the chatter of traders never ceased. There, the Cleric’s Hard Wood Trident rested among other relics: weathered flags, carved staffs, and vessels etched with prayers. The stallkeeper spoke not only of its beauty but of its potential: a weapon that can spear a moment of relief for a beleaguered party, a reminder that healing can be a choice as sharp as any strike. The price, he explained, depends on age, provenance, and the care bestowed upon it; a pristine specimen might fetch a richer coin, while a well-traveled one becomes a cherished tale that finds another home in a different journey. Saddlebag Exchange thrives not merely on numbers but on the exchange of lore, trust, and the sense that a weapon can carry a community’s memory as well as its edge. As the day shifts toward the quiet golden hour, the Cleric’s Hard Wood Trident feels less like a weapon and more like a pledge, a bridge between the river’s memory and the healer’s vow. Its grain holds a promise of renewal; its sigils, a whispered contract to guard and mend; and its presence in the world keeps faith, even when the road grows rough and the waters run thin.