Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Corruption

Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Corruption rests in a glass case, its shaft a matte obsidian that drinks light, the three prongs bending like roots pushing up through dark soil. The surface is rough to the touch, a deliberate texture that feels centuries old, as if stones and bone dust were pressed into the metal during a rite long since weathered by wind and rain. A faint, sickly green sheen crawls along the runes etched into the haft, and when a finger brushes the grip, there’s a whispered warmth—nothing fatal, just the sense that the weapon remembers where it has been. The head wears a patina of rust-red bronze in the creases, as if it were buried in a clay hillside and only recently dragged back into the light. lore threads coil around it like a dark vine: a weapon born from a shrine desecrated by a priest who sought to make the stubborn earth bend to will, then tempered by further trials to restrain its raw hunger for soil and shadow. In the markets and junked temples of the world, the trident’s presence is a story in itself. It is said to hum when the land trembles, a reminder that power offered from the earth comes with a price in patience and obedience. The clerics who would wield it speak of listening to the ground as one would listen to an elder; the corruption it channels is not merely blight but a language—the language of gravels, roots, and the slow, inexorable pull of stone. Those who carry it learn to read that language, to coax fissures to open at the right moment and to steady the hands enough to stand through a storm of soil and ash. It is not a weapon you rush to lift; it is a rite you follow, a promise that the ground will remember you if you remember it first. Gameplay threads weave through that promise with equal force. The Cleric’s Black Earth Trident of Corruption is spoken of in whispers as a tool for turning terrain into an ally and a trap. Its wielder is said to summon tremors that destabilize foes, lay down boundaries of rough ground, and bruise morale by bending the battlefield to their will. In quieter moments, the trident’s aura is described as cleansing the air of needless noise, sharpening focus, and pooling a tempered resilience into nearby allies—the sort of presence that makes an ambush feel less like luck and more like a premeditated moment of fate. Players tell stories of carving routes through siege lines, of guiding a skirmish with the steady hand of someone who can hear the ground’s heartbeat and translate it into decisive, deliberate action. Prices rarely sit still, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a waypoint where the item’s worth drifts with rumor and demand. A clerk there will tell you the trident’s value shifts with the season—some days it’s a guarded treasure, others a rumor you chase across a row of dusty stalls—yet the sense remains that this is not a thing bought lightly. People speak of it in terms of memory and consequence, of the way a single relic can tilt a battle and tilt a village’s memory of what the earth owes to the hands that dare to claim it.