Charr Trident

Charr Trident rests on the palm like a cold memory of war—the head a three-pronged spear of tempered iron, each tine dark as midnight. The shaft is bound in worn leather, its grain weathered and springy, as if it remembers marches long past. Sigils glow pale along its length, runes of a clan that carved its name into the waking dusk. The butt bears a ring of bone-white horn, a relic from a chieftain’s mount, with a faint heat lingering at the brass ferrule where grip meets steel. It is no mere tool; it carries ash, dust, and stories, until someone lifts it again. Legends whisper it was born in the Iron Bastion’s furnaces, tempered by the breath of a fallen hero who spoke to the flame until the weapon learned to listen. In charr memory, such blades carry vows—oaths spoken on blood-wloom nights when banners crackle and the ground remembers the drumbeat of boots. When swung, the three prongs catch light and cast hungry shadows that seem to reach for mischief at the battlefield’s edge. It feels heavy with purpose, but the grip remembers the first time it found a hand, and the world lined up as if to test resolve. In actual play, the trident keeps enemies at arm’s length while allies wheel around. Its reach probes front ranks; its balance rewards patient timing. In the right hands, it conducts battlefield choreography: one poke to soften a shield, another to break a stance, a sweeping arc to scatter foes. For healers and guards alike, its presence reminds that courage can be patient and precise, and that sometimes the best assault makes space for allies. The market is not far from the gate, a place where traders peg pelts and coins to the lazy afternoon. Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of stall you pass with a nod and a curious glance. A sack-handed seller speaks of price as if reciting from scripture: around two gold and fifty silver, depending on charm, memory, and the small favors owed to the ledger. Bargains drift on the air like incense, and the clink of coins proves that this blade carries value beyond its sharpness. Someone else will walk away with the trident and the memory of a battlefield that refused to forget. If you listen closely, the Charr Trident wants more than a wakeful arm to swing. It wants a story woven between loyalty and risk, a tale that reminds the bearer that every strike redraws the map of how a world remembers those who choose to stand in the flame.