Carrion Verdant Trident of Water

Carrion Verdant Trident of Water rests on a damp leather cloth, its length a slender spear of improbably green bone, the three prongs curling like kelp in a tidepool. The haft is wrapped in worn river-silk, stitched with thread that shifts between moss and jade as you tilt it toward the lantern. The head bears a livid patina—verdigris that trembles with every breath—while faint blue motes drift along the glyphs etched into the shaft, tracing lines that look like rivers mapping a coastline of memory. The weapon’s name is burned into the base in slender runes that catch the light when the room grows quiet, as if the water itself were whispering the owner’s fate. Pick it up and you’ll feel a surprising lightness, a subtle buoyancy that makes the hands adjust as if the trident remembers being underwater more than it does being held. The lore that travels with it says it was forged at the edge of a brackish marsh, when a carrion breeze carried the scent of rot and renewal in equal measure. The greens look almost alive, as if you’re cradling a piece of drowned kelp that has learned to stand tall again. In that mythos, the Verdant Trident was meant to shepherd water—not to drown, but to direct, to heal, to reveal what storms would otherwise bury. In battle, captains used it to channel water attunement with a patient, almost tidal grace: a surge of healing condensed into a brief, shining moment, a cleansing mist that sweeps away lingering afflictions, and a shield that glints like spray when rain comes. Practitioners claim it turns skirmishes into slow tides, allowing a squad to ride the crest of a wave rather than flounder in churn. The trident does not merely swing; it leans on the water’s will, bending currents to guide allies and push back foes with a whisper of spray. In skilled hands, it becomes a conduit for allies to recover between clashes and for enemies to misstep as their footing turns slick. Market days take on a different rhythm when such relics appear in the open stalls. I watched a cluster of traders lean in as a brittle breeze tugged at the edge of a sun-bleached map. At the Saddlebag Exchange, where oddities mingle with stories and scuffed pocket ledgers, the trident rests on a velvet pad, its tag fluttering on a length of pale cord. The clerk spoke softly of its make and memory while a captain’s handwriting—courier-slick, salt-stained—scuffed the edge of the page. The going price, he admitted, hovered around four gold and twenty silver, negotiable for a tale or a favor owed to a distant shore. Some buyers haggle for the honor of carrying its legend; others simply dream of matching a tide to their own destinies. By dusk, the Trident of Water finds its new owner or remains a patient rumor, waiting for the next tide to roll in and decide its fate anew. Either way, the carrion-green sheen and the whispering runes keep their vigil, a quiet promise that some weapons are more weather than iron, a reminder that water remembers where it has been—and where it might go next.