Strong Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust

Strong Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust rests on a weathered rock scarred by mineral veins, its shaft a seamless column of obsidian-black wood, etched with red lines that pulse faintly like a heartbeat under moonlight, and the three bronze-tipped prongs gleaming with a chill, patient menace. The texture is unyielding yet somehow smooth, as if the earth itself had knelt to shape it, and a lacquered patina seals every groove, preserving traces of clay, iron, and the long, quiet hunger of battles past. Lore says it drew its first breath during a quarrel between stone and soil, forged in a volcanic forge, then drowned in blood during a siege where harvesters sought to reclaim the land from monsters. Wielders claim it favors ground-bound discipline, the way a river carves its channel; in skilled hands it slices cleanly through armor and sinew, while the Bloodlust aura makes the heart pound in anticipation of the next precise strike. For the adventurer who loves tangle of close-quarters duels, the trident's reach, its heavy, ringing impact, and the occasional healing or lifesteal nods let you chain jabs into a chorus of red-streaked sunbursts. I watched a caravan guard bear it through a canyon where the earth itself breathed ash, and the weapon seemed to hum with a memory of siege lines, turning hesitation into a moment of ruthless clarity. Market days in the city outskirts carry the scent of oil, leather, and old ink, and Saddlebag Exchange holds court with a chorus of bartering voices, where a price tag can swing with rumours. When a collector named Myrrh pressed it into my hands, I felt the earth's memory tighten, and the vendor's scale whispered that the trident would sing for a price in gold—a price that rose and fell with the crowd's appetite. We settled on a compromise that honored both risk and reverence, the deal sealed with a token of oiled coins and a map burned at the edges, and the trident found a new home above a mantle of salt-stained crates. In its new owner's hands, the Strong Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust became more than a weapon; it was a narrator, coaxing stories from a caravan's bones—tunnels mapped, outposts spared, banners raised when every drop of courage was needed. Its uses in the field are practical enough to justify gold coins and whispered prayers: a precise sweep to break a shield, a guard-killing lunge in tight corridors, and a fear-sowing flourish that unsettles even the most iron-hearted fighters. And as merchants at Saddlebag Exchange adjust their scales and the harbor lights dull into dusk, the trident remains a beacon for those who listen to the earth, who believe that blood and soil are bound by memory. In the end, its true price isn’t merely counted in coins, but in stories carried from dawn to dusk, a reminder that even in a land built from stone, blood can teach the soil to remember. And so I left the stall with the weight of the earth in my pack, wondering what other secrets the trident would coax from the road ahead.