Mending Norn Trident of Earth

Mending Norn Trident of Earth glints under a lantern, the bronze head pitted with age, three tines casting patient shadows. The shaft is wrapped in dust-dark leather, the grain of ash visible where the wrap has worn thin. Runes drift along its length in pale green glow—earth-spun script that seems to breathe when the room grows quiet. A mossy patina gathers in the grooves, as if the trident keeps a garden inside its curve. The grip carries the scent of rain-wet stone and old leather; weight sits perfectly, balanced as if the earth itself handed you a tool. This isn't a weapon pulled from a dumbfight. The Mending Norn Trident of Earth carries stories of northern hills where clan fires burn in cold nights and healers coax life from stubborn rock. The Norn speak of bound earth, roots that remember every skirmish, and of a rite that mends bone and oath with a single pulse. The trident's enchantment hums softly when it touches a wound or a shield, as if soil itself bends to knit the broken parts together. In a pinch, it can deliver vitality to an ally who strays too far, and it can anchor a defensive stance long enough for a party to breathe and regroup. In play, the trident threads into the fabric of a support kit. A single binding strike sends a ripple of earth-energy through friends, mending minor fractures of armor and spirit alike, while a longer chant opens a protective barrier—earth-drawn, heavy with memory. It isn't flashy, but its power lies in steadiness: the quiet pulse that returns a bruised party to their feet, and the way it makes positioning feel natural, as if the ground itself nudges you toward safer ground. Market whispers follow it to the docks. A pale-skinned trader at Saddlebag Exchange laid out a map and ledger beside the trident, describing its condition with the care of a shipwright. The moss has thickened at the haft, the rune runnels glow faintly after rain. The price hovered around three gold, negotiable depending on the readability of inscriptions and the sturdiness of the grip. For a collector, priceless; for a field healer, a patient companion. The difference, as ever, lies in the story it carries when pulled from a dusty quiver of time. Back in the wild, the trident carries its own weather. I watched a wounded hunter lean on a fallen log as frost spurted from her breath; the trident's glow deepened, and the hurt lines in her arm faded a fraction as bone and sinew settled into place. A shield-wall set by the group straightened, the earth answering with a slow quake that steadied the line and kept the snow from seeping through boots. Its calm presence allowed the team to shift from panic to plan, to choose safer angles, to trust the ground beneath them. When the hunt turned long, the trident offered more than healing; it tempered haste, teaching restraint and timing—qualities a field party remembers long after the last campfire ashes have cooled. It does more than mend wounds. It binds memory to muscle, stone to sinew, and the living to the land they walk. In that binding, it remains a quiet mentor—an artifact asking its wielder to stand firm, listen to the ground, and believe that some wounds can still be mended.