Carrion Glyphic Trispear

Carrion Glyphic Trispear gleams on the wooden counter, three dark prongs fanning out like a skeletal crown, each blade a shard of bone-black metal that catches the light with a hesitant, almost wobbly glow. The shaft runs slick and smooth in your hand, ash-colored and lacquered to a somber sheen, wrapped in weathered leather that has seen better days and smells faintly of rain, old leather, and distant markets. Along the haft, glyphs coil in tight script, carrion-runed and unyielding, as if the spear itself keeps a secret about every creature it has ever faced. When you tilt it toward a window, the glyphs seem to shimmer and then settle, a pulse beneath the skin of the wood like the last breath of something living and not quite dead. It carries the weight of a story you could step into and walk through, if you wanted to. The weapon’s lore is a whisper you hear again in crowded stalls and candlelit rooms: a spear forged in the shadow of carrion fields, where scavengers and necromancers once traded secrets as easily as bones. The glyphic coating is said to bind decayed energies to the steel, drawing on a long lineage of rites that bind life to lingering things. Some claim the trispear was a tool for warding off wights, others that it could coax a weary foe into overextending a step, as if the blade itself were listening for a morbid cue in the air. Whether true or tall tale told by traders in feverish whispers, the artifact carries a mood of inevitability—like something that knows the world’s edges and has learned to walk along them. In play it becomes a kind of storyteller’s weapon, a conduit for a narrative you carry into every skirmish. Its three prongs let you carve through a crowd with a single, legalistic sweep, catching multiple foes at once and weaving a pattern as old as old wounds. The glyphs aren’t decorative merely; they seem to hum with potential, nudging your build toward a rhythm of puncturing pressure and careful positioning. It’s not a weapon for reckless bravado, but for tactful persistence: a trident that stretches the battlefield, forcing enemies to choose their angles while you thread a line of effect through the melee. For necromancers and ravagers who prize sustained pressure, for guardians who want a reach that still feels intimate, the Carrion Glyphic Trispear offers a lore-tinged utility that can become a signature moment in a long night of patrols and skirmishes. The sense of decay and renewal it embodies—the old world’s hunger kept in check by precise, deliberate contact—slows battle into a story you steer, not just a fight you win. Market glass and scent of oil pull me back to the market floor, where Saddlebag Exchange signs cast a warm glare over the scene. There, a dealer mid-count tells me the price bands for an exotic like this swing with the season—roughly in the 40 to 75 gold range, depending on glyph condition and bargaining prowess. The tag shifts with a whispered negotiation, and I watch as a hopeful buyer pockets a final vow to haggle and walk away with a weapon that will outlast the exuberant chatter of the crowd. It’s the kind of price that makes you pause: a tangible invitation to be part of a longer tale, one where a spear carved with carrion lore can slip from stall to hand and endure, carrying a fragment of the world’s old, patient myths to the next dawn.