Berserker's Black Earth Trident

Berserker's Black Earth Trident rests on a battered workshop table, its shaft a matte ebony that gathers fingerprints like a night-black slate, and the head—forged from a heavy, strangely warm ore—flares with three sharp prongs that fan out like roots after a brutal rain. The metal bears a grainy texture, as if it has been wrestled from the very soil, with faint striations that catch the firelight and glow a dull copper when the weapon is moved just so. Along the shaft runes coil in an earthy copper ink, a language of soil and stone that speaks to those who listen to the ground. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by winters and battles, and the pommel bears a tiny token—a white-bone talisman carved in the shape of a roaring bear—that says the earth itself watches over the berserker who wields it. In the book of relics, it is said to be born of a Berserker who walked the Black Earth, a region where stone and lava whisper underfoot. They say the trident learned to bite when the earth roared, feeding the wearer's fury until the world itself shuddered at the cry of a critical strike. In hands, it is a weapon built for frontline bursts, its swings hinging on stomping earth and broad arcs that carve through armor and shield. Its presence steadies a squad, turning a chaotic push into a measured, thundering advance. The trident's identity rests as much in its aura as its blade; in a Berserker's hands, the earth answers with a tremor that opens gaps for teammates to exploit. Power, Precision, Ferocity—those are the markers of a Berserker's Black Earth Trident. In gameplay, it thrives in clamor: charging through the front line, it jolts enemies with a ground slam, then surges into a flurry of follow-ups that leave armor splinters and pride bruised. In PvP or large battles, that tremor becomes a cue for the team—a beat in the stone-dust drum that signals the moment to press. In fractals and WvW, its reach is less about pinning foes and more about shaping the approach—the moment the ground shudders, someone leans in, and the line shifts. Caravan storytellers say the item travels in crates stamped with the seal of Saddlebag Exchange, a roving market that ferries curiosities from frozen passes to sunlit ports. On such a crate, a price tag gleams in chalk: a sum that wobbles with demand—often quoted in gold but negotiable, depending on whether a buyer brings tales from the road or a rare mount part. The Saddlebag Exchange merchant listens with a sly smile, trading lore for coin, and in that barter the Trident earns a second life. As the sun sinks, the trident does not rest; it waits for the next tide of battle, to pierce air and ground alike. In that waiting, a story of earth power and reckless courage threads through towns, reminding listeners that some weapons carry the world inside their grain. That is how legends breathe, weaponized.