Shaman's Norn Trident of Air

Shaman's Norn Trident of Air rests on the market stall like a spear carved from a storm. Its shaft is ash wood weathered to a pale satin, bound with sinews of stitched leather that smells of resin and rain. The head is a three-pronged crown, brass glints along the tines, each edge etched with wind-riven runes that glow a pale blue when the north wind is spoken aloud. A feather bound in faded blue sits in a notch near the grip, and the grip itself fits a palm as if made for someone who has learned to read the language of weather. When you cradle it, the weapon seems to breathe, a soft hiss of the air escaping along the shaft as if the wind itself were sliding beneath your skin. Old stories say a Norn shaman bound a guardian breeze to its tip during a winter crossing, coaxing a storm to silence so a caravan could slip through a narrow pass. From that moment the Shaman's Norn Trident of Air carried the memory of that wind, a talisman for scouts and for those who would rather outrun a blizzard than endure it. In the field, its silhouette cuts the air with a sound like a sigh turned into steel; the runes flare when a gust is summoned, and the blade tips seem to lick at the air before a strike. It doesn't just hurt; it unsettles the air around a clash, pushing foes off balance and guiding the wielder toward openings in tight fights. For a clan that travels by trail and tide, a trident woven with wind is a storyteller—weapon and omen in one. In play, this V-shaped conduit for the north wind invites a tempo built not on brute force but on rhythm and breath. It favors bold, underhand thrusts that seem to come from nowhere, and moments of quick, practiced parry that draw the gale into a loop of attack and retreat. The weapon's air affinity makes it a natural companion for those who roam storm-swept ground: a scout who reads weather, a hunter who follows the wind's whispers. The trident isn't just metal; it's a portable weather-vane, turning a party's strategy toward speed, misdirection, and the art of weaving among enemies as if bending a gust around a rock. The market bite of the harbor lane eases into the story as I pause at a stall tucked beneath a canvas awning. A leather purse hangs from a peg, a ledger laid open to a page of prices, and the name Saddlebag Exchange is scrolled in neat script. The price, roughly ninety-five gold, makes a buyer pause while rivals murmur of better bargains elsewhere. Such items drift between caravans through the Exchange, a system the wind itself cannot outpace. If you want to ride the storm rather than wait for it, you pay the price, and Saddlebag Exchange guarantees the wind will deliver you, eventually, to the next dawn. The wind keeps moving, history follows.