Hearty Black Earth Trident of Blood

The Hearty Black Earth Trident of Blood rests on the workbench, its head a trio of blunt, matte prongs that catch the light like dried roots breaking through slate. The shaft is a thick, ebony-grained wood, worn smooth by countless grips, and bound with copper wire that has aged to a gentle green patina. Along the length, red-black sigils wind in shallow relief, roots tracing the old earth's memory, as if the weapon itself keeps a map of buried rivers. The pommel bears a small, churned gem, a stone that glows faintly when the earth trembles, a heartbeat you can feel if you press your palm to the wood. lore says it was tempered beneath a sleeping volcano, its tempering rites performed by a geokinetic priest who bled a drop of his life into the iron, fusing earth with a warrior's resolve. In battle, the trident is less a flashy weapon and more a promise—heavy yet responsive, with reach that lets a fighter keep pressure on a swarm while the earth itself seems to hold back the crowd. Its three tines catch more than armor: they trap momentum, pinching it into stuttering pauses that give healers a chance to weave a breath of relief into the frontline. The rune-sparks flare when earth magic is channeled, granting a stubborn steadiness to the bearer, a shield of stone that rides just beneath the skin. It's not the quickest tool in a duel, but for sieges and tight corridors its weight becomes a counterweight to chaos, a reminder that resilience can still turn the tide. Word of the Trident travels fast to places like Saddlebag Exchange, where the city-trodden plaza spills into a market of rumor and barter. There, the price is always a conversation away from a bargain, and the posted tag for the Hearty Black Earth Trident of Blood sits near the high golds, but a patient buyer can lean toward a trade or a more modest sum if the seller believes the story behind the weapon carries as much weight as its steel. Some days a dye master might offer a full crate of color, or a rare sigil that matches the runes along the shaft, turning a purchase into a chapter of a larger tale. As the day dims and lamps glow, the trident rests again, its surface cooling with a quiet memory of the crowd. It feels less like metal and more like a narrative made tangible: earth's patience tempered with a heartbeat of blood, ready to be passed on to the next driver of the story, the next guardian who will listen to the patter of the ground and decide where to strike, where to hold, and when to let someone else write the ending. Its story lingers long after the markets close, echoing in quiet halls. Perhaps the next owner will walk the same hills and feel the tremor beneath the soil, and the trident will once again sing through the air.