Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Corruption

Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Corruption gleams in the torchlight, a three-pronged omen forged from the dark heart of the earth and tempered with the roar of a berserker’s will. The shaft is a shaft of obsidian-black wood, smooth as a river stone yet stubbornly warm to the grip, wrapped in a strip of worn leather that has seen countless storms and skirmishes. Its head is a brutal three-pronged spear, each prong glinting with a dull green fire that crawls along the edges like a slow, patient parasite. Across the head, veins of molten gold pulse faintly, as if the earth itself keeps time with the weapon’s heartbeat. Runic sigils, carved so finely they disappear into the grain, snake along the haft and down toward the butt, telling a story of conquered caves, tremors unleashed, and a pact sealed in blood and ash. In the right light the surface wears the look of a listening thing, as if the earth itself leans closer to hear your next breath before it chooses how to answer. Lore says the trident was born in a tunnel where the rock breathed and the soil remembered old wars. A berserker chieftain—one who rode the tremors like a second wind—seized a portion of the world’s stubborn crust and pressed it into a weapon, binding the weapon’s hunger to the chieftain’s own fury. The Black Earth Trident of Corruption is said to drink the moment you strike, drawing energy from the ground’s patience and answering with a force that shakes the bones of enemies and friends alike. Its surface wears the patina of many battles, a map of scuffles survived and the stubborn belief that ground beneath you can be bent to your will—if your will is loud enough to shake the living earth awake. In play it does not merely sit on a shelf as a pretty relic. It is a catalyst for a certain reckless poetry on the battlefield: a weapon that rewards timing and bold, headlong charges. When the trident speaks in combat, it seems to pull the fight toward a center of gravity you own, turning careful skirmish into a burst of decisive, ground-shaking momentum. Its power sings especially to those who wear Berserker gear, feeding on ferocity and precision to push through crowded lines, break through staggered defenses, and carve a path where none seemed possible. It is a weapon of disruption as much as destruction, a tool that lets a fighter turn the floor into an ally and the enemy into a story the earth will later tell around the campfire. Prices, like rumblings, travel and shift. I heard a trader whisper of it at Saddlebag Exchange, the narrow stalls crowded with relics and rumors, where a hushed crowd haggled over a payment that would seal a deal with the weight of a boulder. The parchment price—painted in careful gold ink—pinned to a rough post suggested a number that made the room hush, then breathed back into life as coins changed hands. A banner of runes, a couple of old maps, perhaps a small trinket of memory—these sometimes pass along with the trident as if the world itself is bargaining for another story to tell. So the Berserker’s Black Earth Trident of Corruption remains not merely an instrument of damage but a living chapter in the world’s long, thunderous chronicle—a weapon that invites the brave to listen to the ground and respond with their own wild, ringing claim.