Mending Norn Trident of Battle

Mending Norn Trident of Battle rests on a weathered table in a rain-slick market, its shaft carved from frost-dark elderwood and bearing the weight of rain-shadowed years. The wood bears a tight, almost glassy grain, as if the storm itself pressed its memory into the fibers. Three prongs rise from a head wrapped in moonsteel filigree, each tine catching light with a pale jade sheen that seems to breathe when the wind shifts. The grip is wound with softened harness leather, cool to the touch, and etched along the spine are thin runes that glow faintly whenever danger nears. A carved Norn stag—its antlers crowned by a ring of mist—sits near the base, a shrine to endurance, to standing when the world would rather crumble. It isn’t merely a weapon; it feels like a relic that remembers a village’s long frost-silver nights and a hunter’s vow to mend what war had frayed. The lore tucked into its edge speaks of a smith who believed that battle should heal as well as wound, and that to wield such a trident was to carry the obligation to repair both friend and landscape after the clash. In the heat of skirmishes, the trident seems to pulse with a quiet humility, a reminder that every strike can bind a wounded comrade back into the fight. Those who hold it describe a sensation of warmth blooming in the air around them after a decisive blow, a soft restoration that touches armor, sinew, and the morale of the line. It’s not simply about dealing damage; it’s about keeping a small circle of fighters intact long enough to finish the task at hand. The trident’s presence grounds a battlefield that might otherwise spiral into chaos: a whisper of order amid the clash of steel, a beacon for those who patch up bruises and broken shields in the hours between dawn and dusk. It invites a caretaker’s mindset—position, timing, and the mercy of a healing touch stitched into the moment when the fight seems about to slip away. The story of this weapon travels beyond the forge and into the bustling lanes, where traders haggle and histories mingle with coin. When a weary caravan pauses at Saddlebag Exchange, a trader might lay the Mending Norn Trident of Battle on a sun-warmed cloth, promising that its runes will remember a fighter’s steps and keep a seam in the fabric of the party’s defense. The price is spoken of in measured breaths—enough to tempt a bold hunter and enough to humble a weary smith—yet the sale feels less about gold and more about the trust that the trident embodies: that a weapon can mend more than flesh, that a ally’s courage can be kept from fraying, and that sometimes, a single instrument—scarred, patient, and true—can knit a world back together, strand by strand, after the fiercest storm.