Shaman's Norn Trident of Water

Shaman's Norn Trident of Water rests on a moss-dusted pedestal, its head three prongs like frozen waves pressed into steel, the central tine crowned with a pale aquamarine gem that seems to breathe with the tide. The shaft is driftwood smooth as well-worn bone, carved with looping kelp motifs and runes that catch the lantern light and make the grain glow from within. A fine film of moisture clings to the metal, and tiny droplets bead where salt and time have etched a patina that shifts from blue to silver as you tilt it. The hilt is wrapped in weather-darkened leather, pressed tight enough to feel like a coastal knot, a grip that remembers long nights listening to rain drum on a thatched roof while distant bells echo over fjords and fjell. In your hands, the trident breathes with a quiet current, a pulse you can almost hear if you stand very still and let the world slow around you. Lore threads run through its design as surely as the fibers bind the leather. The Norn shamanic lineages that birthed this weapon drew water’s spirit into their rites, whispering to springs and glaciers until the river itself seemed to answer in spray and steam. Some say the gem is a captured breath of the glacier-fed sea, a memory of tides that never truly leave the shore. Others tell of a rite where a ritual swimmer channeled a storm’s mercy into the weapon, turning a traveler’s ache into motion and a field of frost into a shield of mist. Touch the trident and you can almost hear those old songs—the splash of a deep pool, the soft crackle of wet stone, a chorus of rain that binds wounds and remembers faces long gone. In the heat of battle, the Shaman’s Norn Trident of Water feels less like a tool and more like a weather system breaking over a coastline. Its presence invites a fluid approach to combat: strikes that hiss with spray, deflections that send streams curling toward enemies, and healing that flows like a rivulet across the battlefield. Players who lean into its mood find that the weapon pairs well with defensive or support-minded builds, turning a tight skirmish into a controlled surge of vitality and retreat. The trident’s water magic lends itself to cleansing lingering effects, limiting the spread of afflictions, and shaping space—knocking back a foe with a well-timed twist of the shaft or coaxing an ally into safety with a curtain of mist. It isn’t about brute force; it’s about bending the room to your favor, as if the tide itself could be steered by a steady wrist. The market tells its own story, too, in the guild-cluttered streets and docks where traders haggle over relics. I watched a quiet exchange at Saddlebag Exchange—the kind of moment where a buyer papers the air with coins and a seller’s grin brightens as the gem-warmed water catches the lamplight. The price tag reads in careful figures, a negotiation stitched into the fabric of trade rather than spoken aloud, and the trident shifts hands with a patient respect that seems to say the weapon deserves a rider who understands both its weight and its wash. It is, after all, a relic meant to ride a current long after the clash of swords has faded.