Carrion Flame Trident of Air

The Carrion Flame Trident of Air sits on the table, a curious fusion of bone-black shine and ember-bright glints. The head is three prongs, like skeletal wind-cutters, each sharpened to a whisper of steel, the metal etched with sinuous runes that glow faintly orange as if captured smoke had learned to sing. The shaft is a tapered reed of carved horn, wrapped in ash-grey leather that has softened to the warmth of a palm. Along the grip, a band of copper threads crisscrosses, tracing a pattern that looks almost like a gust caught mid-fall. When you tilt it, you don’t just see a weapon—you feel a breath of conflict and a spark of memory, as if the blade remembers storms it once rode and corpses it brushed aside. In the rare lull between battles, old-timers tell a story: a relic born where carrion feasts meet the first crackle of flame, a trident that haunted both decay and spark. They say the Carrion Flame Trident of Air was forged not to burn a foe to ash alone, but to bend the wind around the fallen, to lift a comrade over a wall of spears, to scatter arrows with a gust as merciful as it is cruel. Some whisper that the flame is not mere fire but a tether to a long-dead storm spirit, bound to the weapon by a necromancer’s vow. The lore threads it through camps and crumbled outposts—the idea that a weapon can carry both rot and renewal, a paradox pressed into a single, deadly form. On the battlefield, the trident’s value is not only in its promise of drama, but in what it enables. Its air affinity seems to ripple through movement and strike: a quick, practiced twirl can weave a gust into a shield of air, nudging enemies off balance and letting an ally slip past the frontline. In the same breath, the ember signs along the head flare when heat meets wind, lending a burn to certain combos and transforming a swing into a little catapult of motion. It’s not a brute’s tool; it’s a craftsman’s instrument, turning the moment a foe falters into an opportunity to redraw the map of a skirmish. I traded stories with a trader near a ruined watchtower, the kind of place where prices drift on rumor as surely as coins on a string. The Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling lane of goods and gossip, had a rumor of its own about this trident: a price whispered and then weighed by whisperers, a premium for those who could read wind and flame together. The vendor laid the item gently in my hands, measured my gaze, and offered a sum that sounded fair enough—not a fortune, but enough to remind you that some relics carry more than metal; they carry a weather front, a forecast of what a good battle might demand. If you shoulder this weapon, you shoulder a history—the dead learning to breathe again, the wind learning to listen. It is a reminder that power, like flame, does not always burn to destroy; sometimes it clears a path for the living to go forward through a storm.