Soldier's Krytan Trident

The Soldier's Krytan Trident gleams with a weathered luster, its three steel prongs catching the light as if each blade remembers a different command. The head is stout and wary, hammered from dark metal that bears the patina of salt and battle, the edges kissed with tiny nicks that tell of close quarters work and stubborn foes. The shaft is a rhythm of ash-dark wood bound in iron rings, the grip neatly wrapped in worn leather that has molded to a veteran’s hand over years of marching and waiting in the rain. along its length, faint sigils—sunburst and shield interlaced—speak of Krytan allegiance, more memory than decoration, a map of loyalties pressed into grain and steel. It feels solid and too honest to gleam as a showpiece, as if its beauty lies in readiness rather than display. In the lore that threads through coastal towns and inland outposts, this trident carried the weight of a marching banner. It was not merely a weapon but a token of command, forged after a long campaign to remind those who carried it that discipline can be sharper than any blade. Stories whisper that it was hurriedly re-eyed and re-tuned after skirmishes against sea-raiders and shifting battalions, the prongs widened to catch the edge of a shielded enemy and the grip trimmed to keep the palm from slipping when wind and spray made everything slick. People who tell tales in taverns swear the trident remembers the cadence of boots on stone and the hiss of rain on iron, and that memory, in quiet moments, gnaws at the dull edge of fear and makes a soldier stand a fraction straighter. Its usefulness in the world is not limited to a single scene. In skirmishes along the quay or in crowded bivouacs where lines bunch tight, the trident’s reach makes it a thoughtful choice: it can sweep past crowded legions, touch an enemy at a safer distance, and punish a shield wall that forgets to move. Veterans describe how its balance practically teaches you to pace your lunges, to read the tempo of your opponent before a single strike lands. And in broader campaigns, it becomes a symbol as much as a tool—an emblem of training, of a creed that prefers calculated risk over reckless grandeur. When you see it in action, you sense the world’s history unfolding anew: a weapon that isn’t only used but remembered, passed along with a nod to the hands that kept it steady. The market hums with a restless charm, a corridor of voices and barter where relics like this trident find new life. I watched a cleric-broker at Saddlebag Exchange, a place where merchants measure not just metal but provenance, flick a glimmering ledger and offer a price that shifts with the wind and season. It’s never a single figure, he told me, because rust and refinements tint the value, and a nearby caravan can tilt the odds with a fresh tale of where the trident has traveled. A veteran’s trade, a hunter’s bargain, a scholar’s curiosity—prices here bend, and the Soldier’s Krytan Trident moves with them, vice-like and patient, waiting for the next hand to wield it, for the next story to begin.