Rampager's Black Earth Trident of Ogre Slaying

Rampager's Black Earth Trident of Ogre Slaying gleams in the lamp’s pale glow, its head a jagged shard of obsidian that seems to drink the light, the tines like blackened fangs set into a crossguard carved with runes. The shaft, wrapped in weathered leather, bears the patina of many campaigns—the kind of wear that speaks of long nights beneath weathered skies and the grit of marching columns. Its surface holds a texture that you can almost feel through the eyelets: rough basalt-like ridges, a smear of dried mud in the creases, and a faint sheen where ancient oil trapped in the wood has finally found its way to the surface. The Black Earth-Trident itself seems grown from the earth’s own memory, a weapon that remembers every tremor of quarry and every stamp of ogre boots that ever shook a village square. There is a whisper in its lore that this trident was not merely forged but chosen. Local smiths claim a rampager clan kept it as a symbol of their vow to keep the mountains free from ogre raiders, a weapon blessed by earth-witches who swore to bind ogre might to the channelling of quiet, unyielding resolve. In the legends told around campfires, a hero facing down a wall of ogrish brutes—plates clinking, mud flying, the air thick with roars—drives the trident through chaos and into awe: a single, decisive thrust that turns momentum into a new dawn for a battered valley. Whether truth or embellishment, the trident carries that weight in every glance you steal at its silhouette, a reminder that some tools are more than metal and wood—they’re a history you can hold. In the world of open skies and crowded plazas, its significance in combat feels as natural as the earth’s own gravity. The Rampager’s Black Earth Trident is built for reach that finds the gaps between ogre plates, for slashes and thrusts that punch through armor with ferocious economy. Its power rewards aggressive, precise play—each strike a chance to flip momentum, to peel away the ogres’ bulk and expose the soft joints beneath. When a party meets a lumbering wall of ogres, the trident’s sweeps carve usable openings, enabling quick follow-ups from allies who rely on that window of vulnerability. Its lore-slung heft makes it a talisman as much as a tool: a reminder that you ride the line between restraint and rage, and that a well-timed poke or a long, true thrust can tilt the battle as surely as any coordinated assault. Market winds bend around Saddlebag Exchange, where the weapon’s price drifts with the moods of miners, crafters, and veterans who whisper about old wars and old bargains. I heard a trader tell a hopeful buyer that the trident tends to settle in the four- to six-gold range, fluctuating with supply, season, and the stories that accompany it. The same broker would slip you a ledger line about how scarcity—how rarely this exact trident surfaces—can turn a quiet purchase into a pact with a legend. And so, between bartered silvers and patient glances across leather counters, the Rampager’s Black Earth Trident of Ogre Slaying travels on—carrying not just a weapon, but a memory of earth and ogre, of courage earned and paid for in the old, stubborn way.