Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Smoldering

Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Smoldering rests in the palm of a weary scavenger, its head forged from bronze that gleams like a coin pulled from a pocket of soot, three prongs curling in a way that catches every lantern glow as if it could trap a memory. The shaft is a matte ebony, polished so smoothly that it seems to drink the light, with runes etched along its length—sigils of soil, ember, and oath—glimmering faintly when the blade’s inner fire breathes awake. At the center of the head, a living ember sits, not a gem but a quiet blaze that shifts from dull orange to almost gold, as if the item itself keeps the heart of a small volcano in balance. The surface bears a patina of use, fingerprints of those who have hefted it in storms and fires, and a whisper of ash clings to the grain as if the earth itself exhaled onto the weapon when it was first forged. Wearers swear the trident carries a memory of the earth’s forge—the moment a cleric pressed the weapon to the soil and asked the ground to remember the names spoken over it. Its lore grows from the same bedrock as the weapon’s presence on the battlefield: a relic of an order that kept the earth from cracking under siege and the fires from turning their sanctuaries to glass. The Cleric’s Black Earth Trident of Smoldering is said to be bound to both breath and boulder, able to channel soil-fortified vigor into strikes and to coax a ring of heat around the feet of allies when neeeded, as if the ground itself offered a protective mantle. In stories heard around campfires, the ember within the head has been known to flare at crucial moments, turning a tentative skirmish into a controlled furnace where foes feel the sting of being burned by the very heat they thought they controlled. In quieter moments, the weapon’s lore speaks of restraint—how it demands discipline to keep its temper from becoming a reckless blaze. In practical terms, the trident is more than a striking tool; it’s a conduit between earth and flame. It cleaves with weight and precision, delivering blows that feel paradoxically heavy and sudden, as if the ground beneath your foe answered your intent with a tremor. The Smoldering aspect enhances conditions, layering burn and ash that linger even after the strike passes, while the earth-channeling runes grant a momentary bulwark, a resonance that steadies allies and slows the pace of panic in the chaos of a charge. It’s a weapon that wants to be part of a larger story, a piece of a ritual that turns battle into a coordinated rite rather than a simple clash of steel. Pricing, of course, is a living thing in the city’s markets, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a street-level barometer of demand. A veteran trader might spread the word that a Cleric’s Black Earth Trident of Smoldering can fetch around a dozen silver, give or take on the day’s mood and the buyer’s willingness to part with relics that echo the ground’s memory. I watched a quiet negotiation unfold there, the kind of exchange where a buyer slides a weathered map, a fragment of a long-vanished heirloom, and a handful of small silver pieces across the counter, while the seller weighs the ember’s glow against the weight of the earth itself. In the end, the trident found a new hand, its ember brightening in the lamplight, and the market hummed on, as if the world itself approved the transfer of fire and stone back into a living story.