Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Water

Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Water rests on the table like a whisper that waited for a hand to answer. The weapon's surface drinks light, a deep obsidian sheen offset by veins of pale blue that ripple along the shaft as if a hidden current runs beneath the metal. The three prongs fan outward with a measured, patient grace, their tips sharpened to be precise without shouting for attention. The grip is wrapped in worn leather rubbed smooth by years of prayer and grip, the copper threads that bind it aging to a soft green patina. At the butt a sigil—an inverted drop layered over cracked earth—is pressed into the wood, a reminder that water thrives only when the ground can hold it. In the lantern glow the trident's texture shifts from matte to glassy, like rainwater clinging to a granite face, and you can almost hear the distant murmur of a spring in its heart. To hold it is to feel two stubborn elements reach for one another: earth that remembers every tremor, and water that remembers every drought. Legends say the clerics who bore this trident learned to coax moisture from stone by listening to the soil’s slow breath. In places where the land split and wells vanished, they would gather in a circle, stamping the earth until a secret spring woke from its slumber. The weapon became their conduit—the spearhead a channel for healing’s cold clarity, the handle a meandering path for warding and cleansing. In battle the trident channels water into wards that slow the pace of chaos, heals that patch cracks in a wounded party, and mists that veil allies from prying eyes. It feels less like a weapon than a treaty between two stubborn forces, a promise that the storm can be invited in without being torn out by it. In the towns where caravans slow to barter and the market stalls spill into the dust, the trident travels with a rumor of rain. Its presence invites questions about the land’s memory, about the ways communities hold on to wells and wells hold on to stories. Those stories mingle with practical needs: how a healer might stand in a crowded square and pour back life into a sinew-weary adventurer, how a defender might summon a veil of spray that dulls blades and buys a moment to think. The trident’s value isn’t only measured in its weight or the sharpness of its edge; it’s reckoning with a world that negotiates scarcity and solace with equal precision. Saddlebag Exchange figures into the tale as a quiet rumor you can almost trace on a street ledger. A recent listing, noted in a folded parchment, placed Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Water at seven gold pieces, give-or-take a trim from a late afternoon bargain. In practice, the price shifts with the wind—one seller might trade a handful of rare minerals or a companion’s kindness for the chance to return this relic to a village that still says thank you to the rain. The market never forgets a story like this; it stores it in a ledger as if the water itself had learned to keep its own records.