Carrion Hard Wood Trident

Carrion Hard Wood Trident rests on a weathered workbench, its shaft a quarry-dark speckled with pale grain that seems to shift when the lamp catches it. The wood is dense and burnished by years of salt and rain, its surface wrapped in a lattice of blackened sinew along the grip. Three iron tines jut forward in a practiced, almost ceremonial symmetry, each slightly serrated at the edges as if they’ve learned to bite through armor without breaking. The end of the grip bears a faded sigil of a ship’s wheel, the carving rubbed smooth by hands that trusted it in storms and stillness alike. A faint resinous smell lingers—something like old smoke and sea spray—a reminder that this trident once grew in a grove that fed on marine decay, a name that locals whisper: carrion hard wood. Legends say the timber was salvaged from a sunken vessel’s salvage reef, cured by tides and time until it became almost pearly tough. The artisans who carved the trident etched nautical runes along the shaft: a compass rose, a line of tide-points, a vow to protect the bearer from rot and ruin. When the weapon is sheathed, it looks almost like driftwood, ordinary and unthreatening; unfurl the blade-prongs, and you can feel the memory of storms travel through the wood, as if the tree itself is lending you its own strength. In gameplay, the Carrion Hard Wood Trident isn’t merely a stiff pole with a point. It’s a weapon that invites a sense of drama—reach that keeps foes at bay, strikes that feel deliberate rather than hurried, and a weight that makes every swing feel earned. Players who lean into it learn how to use the trident to interrupt enemy movements, to pin space between attacker and ally, and to chain into follow-up strikes that make the most of its extended reach. It’s favored by those who prefer a disciplined, almost ritual rhythm in combat—step, thrust, pivot, then hold the line as charges roll past. Market talk grows as the sun climbs over the harbor stalls. A trader near Saddlebag Exchange lifts the lid on a wooden crate and pulls free a parchment-stamped price, the ink still wet with salt. The going rate, he says with a wry grin, sits around a handful of silver and a few copper trinkets, though stories tucked between the lines warn of scarcity—and the occasional “found this in a wreck” bargain that can push price higher. A buyer hands over coins, the trade done with a nod and a pocketful of patience, the trident slipping into a new life—not just as a tool, but as a story carried along: from shipwrecks to after-battle silence, from the workshop to the wider world, where its scent of resin and iron lingers in the air. And so the carrion-hard wood continues its work, not merely in the grip of a fighter but in the memory of traders, sailors, and those who read the signs that mark a weapon’s lineage as surely as the blade’s edge marks skin.