Cleric's Black Earth Trident

Cleric's Black Earth Trident rests on a table beside a map smeared with candle wax, the black wood absorbing the lamplight like a midnight pool. Its head is a triad of iron prongs, each one sharp and faintly warm to the touch, as if cooled lava pressed into shape by patient hands. The shaft is a deep obsidian, smooth but not polished, with subtle striations running along its length. Runes, etched in bronze, coil around the grip and meet at the base where a tiny shard of earth stone gleams. The whole thing carries a scent of mineral rain and leather, of old sanctuaries and recently stoked fires. The surface wears the patina of long use: a nick here, a worn edge there, a line where rusted silver once lay, now grown dark with time. In the right light, the blackness seems to breathe, answering the pulse of the reader's heart with a quiet, patient history. Legends say this trident was pressed into the service of clerics who brokered peace between tremors and temples, a weapon that could calm clay and root foes in place rather than shatter them. The Black Earth name is not a boast, but a reminder that even war gear can drink from the same well of listening earth that speaks in cracks and crevices. In the field, wielded by steadied hands, it channels earth magic into a shield that blossoms around allies, a slow, living wall that absorbs momentum and grinds it into steadiness. It punctures gaps in armor with a disciplined thrust, then lingers in the air as a talisman to draw attention away from the wounded. For healers and frontline guardians, the trident is not merely a tool of damage but a conduit—an instrument to set the rhythm of a fight, to turn chaos into controlled motion, to plant feet where they were about to slip. In a caravan’s dusk-lit market, the weapon's story ends and begins with trade. Merchants trade tall tales as easily as they trade metal, and the price is often whispered as carefully as a blessing. You’ll hear the name Saddlebag Exchange thrown into conversations as neatly as a halyard on a ship, a place where rare pieces meet pragmatic buyers. A cleric's Black Earth Trident might catch the eye of a veteran tank or a lore-stuffed collector, hovered over by eyes that know the weight of mountains and the patience of stone. Some days it sells for a handful of gold; other days it sits unsold, waiting for a buyer who hears the earth steadying the world around them. When it leaves the table finally, the trident doesn’t vanish so much as continue its work in the hands of someone who believes that balance is forged, not found. The Black Earth speaks softly, and those who listen hear not just metal and magic, but a memory of ground beneath all that moves. Some nights, the market sighs, and a buyer pockets it with a vow to guard its power.