Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust

Cleric's Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust catches the morning light with a sudden, almost reluctant gleam, as if a shadow had learned to shine. The shaft—a deep, burnished charcoal that feels warm to the touch—rises to three prongs that curl like fern fronds half-buried in clay. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, scarred by years of ritual handling, and the blade-like edges bear inlaid runes that resemble cracked earth and spilled blood. A faint scent of iron and damp stone clings to it, the kind you notice only when you lean close enough to hear the whisper of a graveyard breeze. The trident’s surface seems to drink light, then spit it back in slow, glittering motes. Lore has it that clerics of the Black Earth once bound a lover’s vow to the soil’s hunger, forging this weapon as both consecration and blade, a conduit for blessing and blood alike. When held by the right hand, the trident seems to hum with weight and purpose, as if the earth itself leans in to listen. In the field, the Bloodlust keeps faith with that old oath. Its touch is said to siphon a little strength from every swing, turning wounds into windfalls of health for allies who stand near. It blooms into a pale red aura on enemy flesh, a quiet reminder that soil and blood share a common debt. When the cleric channels earth-shield and life into battle, the trident responds with a rumble beneath the feet, a low pulse that makes the ground seem to breathe. It is the kind of weapon that does not merely cut; it changes the tempo of a fight, drawing foes closer to the center of gravity where the cleric’s incantations can do their best work. The weapon’s gravity is less about showy strikes and more about turning a skirmish into a story of endurance, where a single healing breath might tilt the odds. Market whispers carried on the morning wind led me to Saddlebag Exchange, where the item was listed among relics with a price tag that would make a smith pause. Traders debated its provenance, some swearing it tasted of rain and iron, others swearing it whispered the name of a buried cathedral. The board showed varying offers, but the consensus was clear: the Cleric’s Black Earth Trident of Bloodlust is not for the faint of heart or the faint of purse. If you can cradle its weight and read its hunger, you’ll know why it travels across caravans and war-torn streets alike. I walked away with a sense that the trident is less a weapon than a sealed letter from the past, urging the bearer to remember soil, blood, and oath every time the three-prongs bite into the air, every time the earth answers back with a patient, almost grateful tremor. In quiet moments after battle, I hear ground-kissed whispers from the haft, a reminder that power belongs to those who listen, and to those who guard what they carry. Always.