Apothecary's Elder Wood Trident

Apothecary's Elder Wood Trident rests in the glow of a shop lamp, its shaft carved from a single piece of elder wood that glints amber where the grain tightens. The three prongs curve like slender branches, evenly spaced and sharpened to a patient tip, while a brass ferrule catches the light with a soft bloom of age. Runes along the length pulse faintly, a herb-green glow that deepens when the night air thickens. The grip is wrapped in worn leather lacquered with tinctures, and a small vial hangs from a thong, a quiet badge of the apothecary who kept it close. The wood carries a scent of camphor and resin, as if a greenhouse memory lives inside it, and the surface bears a delicate pattern of veins and leaves that hints at a lore: elder wood, nurtured in a sheltered garden, survived a plague and a siege, and chose to walk out into the world with its keepers. As a weapon and a tool of care, it moves with a different rhythm. The trident’s length lets you stand between chaos and your companions, delivering measured stabs while guiding breaths of restorative energy toward wounded allies. Each prong is not merely a point but a channel; the wood hums with alchemical potential, ready to bless, purify, or mend. In skirmishes and field work alike, its reach invites you to maintain distance, to trade blows for time, to trigger healing auras and minor buffs that turn the tide of a tense moment. The elder wood seems to remember the herbs tucked in apothecary drawers: it sweetens the air with a hint of mint, cools a fever with a whisper of frost. Markets and memory meet in quiet conversations at the harbor stalls, where traders lean over copper scales to estimate value and risk. The Saddlebag Exchange, a name whispered among apprentices and old merchants alike, lists our trident not just as a weapon but as a relic of craft—a tool that survived years of pestilence, patient study, and careful use. Price shifts with the tide of stories: a fresh batch of herbs can raise its worth, a particularly telling parchment from a healer’s journal can nudge it higher. A buyer threads coins through the crowd, finds a negotiator who reads the carved runes, and the trident passes hands with a soft clink of metal and a sigh of old resin. Its value is tied to the world’s need for relief and memory. To hold it is to feel a lineage: healers who wandered into danger, scholars who chose consequences over certainty, guardians who believed that care could be a form of courage. In the larger story of the world, the Apothecary's Elder Wood Trident is less a mere tool than a bridge—between herb and weapon, between patient and ally, between past plague and present courage. It asks little: to use with intention, to honor the memory of elder trees, and to remember that every strike can carry a balm as well as a blade.