Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Water

Berserker's Black Earth Trident of Water gleams with a cold, liquid sheen, its basalt-black head catching the lamplight and throwing back a dozen tiny prisms along every edge. The three tines drink the darkness like frozen spearpoints, while veins of pale blue mineral wend through the metal, tracing rivers that glow when moonlight touches them. The shaft is wrapped in tanned leather, stitched with coppery thread that catches brief sparks as it moves, and a ring of salt-crusted metal anchors the grip near the pommel. It feels heavy and honest in the hand, as if the earth itself pressed up through the ground and offered this relic to a warrior who would listen to both stone and current. Lorekeepers insist the weapon was forged where lava cooled against tide, a seam where earth and water learned to speak to one another, which is why the trident bears both a mountain’s stubborn resolve and a shoreline’s patient tide. When you hold it, you can almost hear the whisper of brine and the muffled drumming of distant drums in stone caves, as if you’re being invited to step onto a battlefield that remembers the old pact between land and sea. In the world’s more practical terms, the trident is not merely a showpiece. It is a weapon built for tempo, for aggressive, crisscrossing strikes that punish mis-timed blocks and reward bold, uninterrupted advances. Those who hunt with Berserker’s gear tend to chase ferocity and precision, and this trident amplifies that impulse: a reach that keeps foes at arm’s length just long enough to let a follow-up cut land, a weight that drives the impact through plate and leather alike, and a water-woven sheen that seems to draw enemies’ attention away from their own footing as you pivot and cut. It feels designed for a veteran fighter who has learned to ride the edge of danger: when the tide rises, you surge forward; when the ground trembles, you plant your feet and drive. I’ve watched the weapon pass between hands like a shared secret, carried along the coast by caravan routes and river towns that trade in memory as much as steel. Its true test, they say, comes in the moments when the air tastes of rain and copper, when the battlefield is a sheet of moving water and a storm-wound sky. In those moments the trident seems to exhale, sending a spray of electric illusion along with the impact, as if the water itself is steering your blade. Market nights at Saddlebag Exchange are when the deal tightens. A trader named Mara tipped the scales with a quivering smile and a whispered claim that the trident had found its rightful owner only when a sea-worn berserker laid it down and walked away, leaving a thread of stories in the salt-stung air. The price— negotiable, depending on the moon, the buyer’s courage, and the willingness to part with rare trinkets and stories from the road—sat between glittering coins and the soft glow of a tracked gem. I left with the memory of a weapon that feels less like metal and more like a current you wear on your skin, a reminder that the world’s ground has a heartbeat—and sometimes that heartbeat becomes a blade.