Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Water gleams in the weathered palm of a salvage hunter, its shaft a slab of obsidian-black wood, cool and smooth under calloused fingers. The three tines rise like spear-winds, iron-wrought and slightly mottled from years clawed free from salt and storm. Runes run along the grip, etched in pale blue that shifts with the light, and a line of tiny salt crystals clings to every edge as if the sea itself had kissed the weapon and left a trace of foam. The whole thing feels carved from memory—earth’s stubborn patience and water’s restless hunger—a relic that tastes of rain and clay, of seabed caves and the tremor of plates shifting beneath a shoreline village. Locals whisper that it was forged by a Berserker of the Black Earth, a tribe of storm-worshiping smiths who believed the weapon could hear the heartbeat of the ground and the breath of the tide. They say the trident was tempered in a spring fed by mineral veins, then hammered on an anvil warmed by a crackling reef-fire, so that every strike carries both the weight of stone and the whisper of waves. When the Berserker’s legend grew, the trident traveled with it, first through skirmishes along the coast, then into the open fields where wind-swept banners and marching drums tell a similar story: power earned through endurance, aggression tempered by the land’s slow, stubborn pace. To hold it is to feel the land lean in, to hear water gather behind your ribs, to sense a tide turning at your feet. In play, the weapon becomes more than metal and myth; it is a dialogue between two elemental routes. When swung, it channels the earth’s grip—stability that steadies your stance and punishes the momentary slack in a foe’s footing—while the water motif threads through its unlocks, delivering a surge of flow and a cascade of currents that disrupt you enemies’ poise and rinse away some of the lingering gunk of battle. It suits a Berserker’s mindset precisely: insistence, ferocity, and a dash of calculated chaos. The trio of tines cuts through armor with a clean, rasping sound, and the runes glow brighter as you juggle momentum, guiding you into a sequence where briny spray meets stone-hard resolve. It’s the kind of weapon that, once you’ve learned its rhythm, makes the battlefield feel like a shoreline where waves reclaim what’s theirs and the ground holds you up long enough to seize the moment. On the quay, a merchant tucked behind a stall at Saddlebag Exchange notices the glint in your eye and the way the air seems to hum with the trident’s history. He speaks in a low, confident cadence about supply and demand, how the price for something this rare shifts with tides and tales, how event skins, luck, and regional preference all tug at the gold a buyer is willing to part with. The tag on the counter-jute bundle reads a value that has drifted up and down with the seasons, sometimes a windward bargain, other times a harbor-hardened premium, but always a reflection of its enduring allure: an artifact born of earth and sea, a weapon that remembers the land’s patience and the water’s insistence. So the Berserker’s Black Earth Trident of Water remains—not merely a tool of war, but a story cast in iron and salt. It ties a coastline to a battlefield, a legend to a blade, and a buyer to a memory of waves that refuse to forget.