Strong Trident

The Strong Trident gleams with a salt-bronze patina, its three prongs catching light like jagged teeth of a reef. The shaft is wrapped in weathered leather, and every inch bears careful etching—kelp fronds, barnacle halos, a nameless rune that only surfaces when the blade is wet. The central prong rises a touch higher, as if it’s listening to the ocean’s breath, while the two side prongs curve inward with a quiet, practiced menace. At the base, a coil of blue-green enamel circles the grip, hints of a crest from a drowned city pressed into the metal, as if the trident itself were a weathered page torn from a longer sea-woven chronicle. Holding it, you can feel the weight of tide and time, a balance of salt wind and smith’s discipline. Lore says it was tempered in brine by a master of tides who bridged mortal craft with the whispers of sea spirits. Some tell of the city beneath the foam, where ships vanished and arrived again at will, and that the Strong Trident was the seal pressed upon a pact between guardian and current. It’s not merely a weapon; it’s a signpost, a reminder that the coast remembers who fights for it and what’s owed to the waters that hold the world together. In whispering rooms and lantern-lit docks, sailors swear the trident speaks in the glint of its enamel and in the way the prongs catch the glare of moonlit waves. Those who carry it learn to move as if the sea itself might slide along their blade tip first, then retreat to let them stand firm. In battle, the Strong Trident feels like a bridge between two worlds: reach and resilience. Its length grants sweeping, punishing lines that cut through crowded hulls and infantry alike, while the grip—cool, smooth, and stubborn—refuses to betray you when the tide turns. Wielders praise its steady balance, the way it threads between shields, and the way the prongs can pin an opponent just long enough for a follow-through with a secondary strike. It rewards patient, fluid combat—staying light on your feet, letting the current carry you into openings, then snapping the prongs forward to seize control of the moment. It’s the kind of weapon that becomes a story in itself, a companion through long patrols and sudden skirmishes, a reminder that the sea’s patience is as formidable as any storm. On a damp market night, I found the Strong Trident resting among other relics and sea-worn trinkets in a stall that could have been a stray tide itself. The owner—eyes bright beneath a rain-soaked hood—murmured that its price would be a fair test of a rider’s nerve. I pivoted to Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling, portable bazaar that travels with the harbor winds, where traders weigh luck with coins and the scent of rain on iron lingers in the air. There, the trident’s tag flashed a sum around two gold, give or take a willing silver for clever bartering. It isn’t only a purchase; it’s a negotiation with the sea itself, a chance to carry a fragment of the coast’s memory into whatever shore you end up defending. Holding it again after the purchase, I understood why the Strong Trident endures in stories. It’s not just steel; it’s a tide you can wear, a pledge to stand with the shoreline when the night rises and the water demands a witness.