Strong Trident

Strong Trident sits on the weathered oak, its head catching the light like a coral spear carved from dawn. Three bronze prongs flare outward, each one etched with a delicate lattice of sea-green runes that catch and release every ripple of air. The mid-prong rises a fraction higher, a design meant for a calculated stab that would threaten a shield and slip past armor in a single, practiced motion. The shaft is a stout, darkened ash, lacquered in a gradient of blue and green that shivers when the tide of the room shifts. Coral inlays thread along the grip, and the handle is wrapped in salt-worn leather, scored with the weathered kiss of many voyages. The pommel bears a tiny shell, like a kept memory of a harbor’s quiet morning, and the whole thing feels as if it could still hear the bell of a distant quay. It’s a weapon and a relic all at once, as if the sea itself pressed a blessing into its banded wood and tempered steel. Lore whispers that Strong Trident was forged by a mariner-smith who traded in storms for smithing—a figure said to have learned the language of tides and wind on the open water. They claim the head’s prongs were cooled in brine and tempered by a clock of moonlit hours, then inscribed with a tide-chanted oath to guard sailors and seekers against sudden squalls. In coastal taverns and harbor alleys, sailors tell of the trident’s first test when a breach in a silting harbor threatened the town’s ships. A single thrust, a turning of the head, and the waves seemed to bow in respect, sealing the breach with a wall of spray that smelled of kelp and iron. It is not merely a tool for battle, the old ships’ wives murmur; it’s a pledge carried by hands that know the weight of rain and the loneliness of a long voyage. In the hands of a capable fighter, the Strong Trident becomes a conductor of momentum. Its reach invites clean, precise strikes, its three prongs delivering a cadence that can break a guard, interrupt a spellcaster’s rhythm, or poke through a line to touch an exposed flank. The weapon’s design favors fluid, underwater-keen movements, but its balance also lends itself to warding off attacks on a windy deck or along a narrow pier. Those who work with it—hunters, traders, escorts, or guardians of coastal towns—learn to read the water’s mood in the prongs’ glow, letting the weapon guide their steps as surely as a compass. Prices in the market drift with the harbor’s breathing. Yesterday, while I stood at the edge of the docks, a sturdy trader spoke of a Strong Trident finding a new owner through Saddlebag Exchange, a place where ships’ stores and stories mingle. The price hovered in the neighborhood of several gold coins, but the stall-keepers traded more than metal; they traded the memory of a voyage, the promise of safe passage, and a whispered bargain that felt almost like a blessing. For a weapon so tied to the sea’s moods, it’s not merely worth its weight in coin; it’s worth the chance that the next storm will fall in line, that a shy harbor will open up, and that one hunter’s path will be steadied by a trident that remembers the tide.