Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Ice

Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Ice rests on the auction bench like a frozen omen, its shaft a deep, matte black that drinks candlelight, carved with frost-lace runes that shift when the room grows cold. The head is a gleaming prism of pale ice, jagged edges catching light and throwing blue sparks with every slow turn of the hand. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, threaded with silver filigree that tells of long campaigns and longer storms. On the haft a mark of the Black Earth covenant bears a horned sigil, as if the weapon were pressed into a tribe's oath and never let go. The balance is perfect, a whisper of weight in the palm, as if the trident intends to swing with the inevitability of winter itself. It's cold to the touch, yet there is a warmth in its legend, a memory of berserkers charging across frost-dusted plains. Its presence on a fighter's hip is more than intimidation; it's a tool that locks into momentum like a gear in a clock. The wielder calls forth frost and fury in one breath, using the trident's icy edge to pierce the enemy's guard, then driving a brutal follow-up that shatters momentum and leaves a trace of frost on the ground. In expeditions through ruined caverns and ash-swept uplands, veterans speak of the weapon turning skirmishes into turning points: each strike buys an extra heartbeat for a trapped ally, each frost-charged puncture sets up a decisive finisher when the party coalesces for a coordinated assault. The lore surrounding the Black Earth traces a pact sealed under a glacier during a siege that never fully thawed, a reminder that power can be as merciless as the cold and as loyal as a compatriot. The trident's ice is not just a blade; it's a memory of marches toward the horizon, where the wind itself seems to sharpen the tongue of every berserker who wields it. Pricing and markets are as treacherous as the terrains it represents, and the road between myth and coin is a narrow one. I watched a seasoned trader at Saddlebag Exchange weigh a trinket's history as carefully as its heft, noting the wear on the leather grip, the fame that clings to the Black Earth name, the rarity of such a specimen in this season's wave of loot. A price drifted like a cold current, sometimes toward copper, sometimes toward silver, depending on the day and the bargaining skills of the buyer. In those stalls, a buyer might pay for the story as much as the steel, for the trident's reputation travels with every recount of a frostbitten skirmish. The merchant's eyes gleamed when a champion stepped in, tracing exact lines of frost on the blade and trading glints of pride for a ledger's careful note. In that exchange, the Trident becomes more than a weapon; it becomes a passport to the next campaign, a reminder that dawn favors the cold ally who leads the way, for all.