Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Earth

Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Earth rests on the counter like a weathered omen: a shaft of charcoal-black wood, knotted with age, wrapped in cracked leather that tells of long patrols and long nights. The head is a three-pronged spear forged from iron-dark metal, its tines tapering to needles, the central spike longer and studded with a ring of basalt-like grain that hints at its stone-bound oath. Runes creep along the haft in a slow, patient script—earth sigils that catch the lamp light and glimmer as if they remember the ground itself. The grip is worn smooth by hands that once measured seasons, not inches, and when you tilt it toward a window you feel a chill that isn’t cold so much as attentive, listening. Lore speaks softly of a cleric who bound the weapon to the planet beneath, a guardian who walked between quakes and quills, between soil and city, until the world demanded a steward for the earth’s stubborn heart. Some say the trident was cooled in the water of a holy spring, then quenched in the ash of a festival fire; others whisper it was forged at the mouth of a sleeping volcano, blessed by an earth oath that tightens when the ground trembles. In any case, the Black Earth Trident of Earth wears its history like a crust—visible, but not brittle. It promises patience, not rage; it claims the ground as ally, not prey. In practical terms, it is more than a trophy. Its magic threads into the flow of battle, bending the fight toward the terrain itself. When swung, the weapon seems to sink a fraction, drawing up the dust of the battlefield as if the earth were bowing to yield a path. A true cleric can coax tremor pulses from its head, turning plate and shield into a moving shield belt for allies, or fracture the ground to trap should-be-heroes beneath a wary crust. Wielded by a discipline-minded team, the trident becomes a conductor’s baton, guiding healing pulses through stone and soil to reach wounded fronts. It also stores a stubborn energy—two or three low-level earth bursts that rise when foes press too close, leaving a surprised silence in their wake, a pocket of gravity that slows anyone who tries to leap away. The price, of course, matters in a world where traders hawk legends as surely as they hawk rations. The Saddlebag Exchange has a board where such relics linger, their tags wavering between hopeful and memory. A veteran trader once told me that the trident would fetch a sum both honest and haunted, enough to keep a small order in bread and lamp-light for a season—but the right buyer might trade a story, a favor, or a shared campfire for the chance to cradle the instrument again. And so the item sits, waiting for the moment when earth and fate decide to align, for a worthy hand to lay hold and listen to the ground’s quiet, unyielding truth. Its weight remains a promise.