Carrion Glyphic Trispear

Carrion Glyphic Trispear rests on the worktable, its shaft a river-worn green-black wood wrapped in threadbare leather and rings of dull bronze that catch every shadow. The head splits into three prongs, each like a splintered bone lacquered to a pale sheen that mirrors moonlight. Glyphs coil along the shaft in a serpentine script, sigils that glitter with frost even when the room is warm. A fine film of dust settles on the blade’s edges, and when a lamp catches the point, a faint blue glow crawls along the runes, as if the weapon is listening to a memory it cannot forget. The cut of the metal feels cold to the touch, and a tang of old salt clings to the grip, as if the spear had stood watch by wet docks before finding a new owner. Its balance favors a forward lunge, yet enough heft to anchor a brutal swing with a single breath. Legends say glyphs were pressed by carrion-binders, smiths who traded sleep for ink and fed their craft on bones found in forgotten pits. The Trispear was designed to pierce whispers as well as flesh, severing the living thread between a target and its life force. It is said that whoever wields the weapon can draw a fraction of their foe’s vitality through the prongs—a perilous exchange that suits necromantic tastes alike. In the oldest markets, traders speak of such weapons with reverence, as though they carry a memory of marsh winds and sunken ruins in their grooves. Campfire tales further murmur that the glyphs hum when blood is drawn and the dead seem to murmur back. In combat, the Carrion Glyphic Trispear asks for rhythm: a sequence of careful jabs and arcing cuts that sweep across groups, puncturing armor and leaving pockets in its wake. Those who synchronize stance and glyphs can apply bleed, poison, or corruption more readily, turning every strike into a thread in a larger tapestry. For a path where life is a volatile resource, the weapon’s glyphs bind a fraction of the wielder’s focus to their target, granting small reserves of vitality when the fight lingers and the world’s echoes grow colder. Stories say the trident-like head was forged where bone and glyph met, insulating its bearer from rot and marsh air. It is a weapon for travelers who share bread with scavengers and listen to the city’s whispers—the kind of survivor who reads a river of rumors and uses it to decide when to press forward. Prices drift at dusk, and travelers barter with Saddlebag Exchange clerks who keep parchment ledgers smelling of rain and leather. The tag pinned to the Trispear lists a price that makes the room quiet: a handful of silver and a small token traded from hand to hand—enough to entice a second look from any scavenger who believes the weapon’s look is as hard as its memory. The stall’s chatter swirls with coins clinking, promises and cautions mingling, while a faded map fragment and a bone charm sit as potential add-ons. Carried into a new night, the Carrion Glyphic Trispear is more than metal; it’s a rumor you walk with, a reminder that in a world of bright fires and loud battles some pasts stubbornly refuse to die. It travels with you, a quiet oath against decay.