Cleric's Hard Wood Trident

Cleric's Hard Wood Trident gleams under a lamp in the quiet workshop, its shaft a single, stubborn plank of ironwood that seems to drink the light and give back a slow, amber glow. The grain runs like a river in mended motion, tight and deliberate, with small gouges baked into the surface by years of patient use. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, dark with oil and stories, the texture so tactile you can almost hear the wood’s sigh as you run a thumb along it. The three tines rise with a measured arrogance, their edges tempered to a dull, almost ceremonial edge, each tine catching a glint of coppery patina that hints at ritual bindings rather than mere warfare. Etched along the shaft are sigils— knots of river-runner scripture and a seed of sacred geometry— each line telling a quiet tale of healing, protection, and the patient faith that holds a trench of battle together with mercy. To hold it is to feel the weight of a vow. The trident’s balance is a mercy in motion, neither too light to tempt rashness nor so heavy it drains the arm after a single skirmish. Its texture—smooth where the hand rests, rippled along the grip, roughened by the oil that keeps a healer’s touch from faltering—makes it feel like a living instrument, more organ than weapon. In the right hands, this wood becomes a conduit: not a spear to strike fear, but a staff that channels a draught of life, a tool that stabilizes the line and steadies the breath of those who fight beside you. Lore says it was carved by the temple carpenters after a river ordeal, tempered in the sun and blessed at dawn, a relic meant to be carried by those who mend as steadfastly as they defend. In the heat of battle, its uses unfold like a quiet story within a larger saga. A cleric-wielder can lash out with a jabbing, disciplined poke that disrupts a foe’s stance, then pivot to channel a restorative aura through the sigils on the shaft, washing allies in a soft, green-tinged light. It isn’t about flashy strikes; it’s about the patient choreography of protection and renewal. The three prongs, when raised, feel almost ceremonial, a reminder that every clash in the world is threaded through with faith and duty as much as steel. For siege or skirmish, the Cleric’s Hard Wood Trident becomes a symbol on the field: a reminder that the same wood that anchors a patient healer can steady a line when the river runs high with danger. Market whispers follow the trident as it travels—from workshops to caravan camps to the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where prices drift like smoke with the tide of demand and the watchful eye of collectors. A seasoned buyer will tell you the value lies not only in its carved lore but in the stories it carries—the quiet courage of a healer who chooses restraint when anger would be easier, the promise that a single spark of green light can turn the night back toward mercy. As I watch it rest again on the bench, the Trident feels less like a tool and more like a companion on the road between battlefield and bedside, a constant reminder that power and healing can share the same hands, if the heart is willing to hold them both.