Carrion Steam Trident of Earth

The Carrion Steam Trident of Earth rests in a glass case like a mislaid relic from a buried furnace, its three bronze prongs curved into a wary apex, speckled with rust and green patina. The shaft is wrapped in cracked leather, tight in places, slack in others, and along its length a riveted seam sighs with every touch, as if the metal remembers the grind of old gears. From the central hub, vents exhale a slow, mineral breath, carrying a faint hint of oil and soil, as if the trident were half-submerged in spring rain. The label calls it Carrion Steam Trident of Earth, a name that feels like a whisper: a weapon born of rot, rebuilt by steam, tethered to the stubborn will of the earth itself. Locals tell a story of a quarried shrine where an earth-warden once coaxed life from stone, binding the tremors of the hills into a weapon that could uproot a siege with a single, patient thrust. The Carrion Steam Trident was said to drink in the soil's memory—the way a root remembers rain—and, when wielded by a determined hand, to stir the ground into a living conduit. It is not merely used for hunting or defending; it is deployed to stabilize a battlefield, to crack a shield wall with a measured push, or to coax a defensive trench from otherwise stubborn earth. Its lore sits with whoever carries it, a reminder that decay and renewal stand in the same breath. In gameplay, the trident acts as a hinge between raw force and the slow craft of earth magic. Swinging it channels tremors that fan out in a cone, preventing foes from skittering around your front line. When earth-aligned skills glow on its blade, teammates feel the ground steadier; immobilizing moves bloom into short-term protection, and the weapon’s aura seems to pull the party back from the edge when the going gets rough. It rewards timing: you don’t rush, you wait for the earth to exhale, then you strike and watch the terrain bend to your will. For a player who loves tools that whisper rather than shout, the Carrion Steam Trident of Earth feels like a pact with soil and steam—a narrative hook turning each skirmish into a small legend. Prices, of course, float with the market. In the humming back room of the Saddlebag Exchange, a seasoned trader smooths the worn leather gloves and mutters the going rate for such a relic: around 1 gold and 30 silver, maybe a little more on a busy day when the crowd is hungry for rare earth gear. The chatter peels away as the trader explains the trident’s quirks—the vents will hiss on a cold dawn, the leather wrap will soften with use, and the earth-borne power will only bloom for hands patient enough to coax it. The buyer nods, imagining the trench they’ll carve through a siege, the safety they’ll offer a squad, and the quiet story they’ll add to the earth’s long memory.