Cleric's Black Earth Trident

Cleric's Black Earth Trident sits on a weathered saddle-hide cloth, its head a cruel piece of obsidian that drinks light and turns it into shadows. The three prongs rise like basalt spears, each edge whetted and gleaming with a cold, deliberate polish. The shaft beneath is lacquered ebony, wrapped in braided leather that bears the smell of rain and ancient stone, a grip etched with fingerprints of care and time. Copper filigree coils around the base of the head, catching on the lamp glow and tracing slow, deliberate runes that seem to hum with a low, earthen resonance. When you turn it in your hands, the surface doesn’t so much reflect as remember—every scratch a story, every indentation a vow kept by hands long vanished. Lore speaks in whispers about the trident’s birth during a quiet uprising of the earth itself, when priests of the Black Earth pressed their prayers into the ground as if it were clay. The weapon absorbed that moment—its magic not flashy, but patient—like a seed that waits for the right season to push through stone. Pilgrims say the sigils along the haft hold the memory of a pact among stone, soil, and breath, a covenant that promises protection to those who fight with disciplined hands and a healer’s conscience. In the right hands, the trident doesn’t merely strike; it becomes a conduit for the land’s own will, a steadying influence in the middle of chaos, a reminder that sometimes strength lies in restraint as much as in force. In practical terms, the Cleric’s Black Earth Trident is as much a tool of restoration as it is a weapon. Its wielder can channel a healing pulse that feels like the slow rise of a tide, mending wounds with careful, measured grace. With a practiced stance, the trident can lay down a field where allies gain a steadier pace, a sanctuary carved from stone and breath. Its earth-shielding aura gathers around a party, absorbing blows and turning raw aggression into momentum that characters can ride toward the next safe moment. And when the time comes to pressure a stubborn foe, the trident’s tremor-minded strikes snap the air, as if the ground itself is answering a call to ground the adversary’s momentum. It’s not a flashy kit, but a reliable partner in long skirmishes—the kind of weapon you trust to hold a line while you tend a comrade’s slow recovery or rally a retreat with a timely, earthbound reminder of where the ground begins. The market, of course, keeps a sharp eye on relics like this. I watched a vendor in a cloistered arc of stalls trade stories as much as steel, a broker from the Saddlebag Exchange explaining how the trident’s value shifts with wear and consecration. Today, it would fetch a few gold in pristine condition, the price nudged higher by a fresh line of sigils that glowed faintly under lamplight. Tomorrow, a belt-sand of dust and time could bring it down—or raise it again if a buyer finds itself drawn to its patient power. Either way, the Cleric’s Black Earth Trident remains a story you can hold, a weapon that refuses to hurry, insisting instead on balance, endurance, and the quiet certainty that the earth keeps its own promises.