Sentinel's Black Earth Trident of Ice

The Sentinel's Black Earth Trident of Ice rests on a worn oak table in a caravanserai corner, its shaft a seamless obsidian-dark column that drinks light and shivers with frost whenever the door sighs open. The head is a long spear carved from a single stone of frozen earth, edges etched with pale runes that hum like a distant wind. Leather wraps around the grip in frost-white thread, and every inch feels cold to the touch, as if the weapon keeps a breath held since the day it was forged. The black shale around the head seems to drink candlelight, leaving a blue glow in the nooks where sigils meet metal. Lore speaks of a Sentinel who sealed a chasm between earth and ice, binding the weapon to the guardian's cause; ever since, it has lingered at the edge of wars, a reminder that stone can listen to frost. Beyond its beauty, the Trident carries a tactician's patience. In a squad it acts as a fulcrum, drawing ice's slow patience into battle's tempo; its charge can fracture stubborn walls, letting a frontline fighter slip through as teammates press the moment. Those who read runes see a quiet directive in its pulse—bind enemies in place while allies strike from cover, carve quick, glacial paths through melee. Its aura is said to thicken the air, making warm breath heavier for a heartbeat, buying seconds for a healer to slip a shield onto a squaring ally. In larger campaigns, the Trident can be a catalyst for sieges and skirmishes alike, a relic that makes space for strategy where brute force would fail. On a sun-dull afternoon, a caravan hawk halted beneath a pennoned arch to trade at Saddlebag Exchange. A buyer traced the runes with careful fingers, haggling over the Trident's weight, its promise, and the chill that leaks through decades of ash. The price hovered at a handful of gold—nothing obscene to a seasoned merchant, but a fortune to a journeyman. Yet for a collector who understands that history travels on its own heels, the Trident was worth the risk. When the owner finally wrapped the sheath, the market's buzz lowered to a respectful whisper, as if the earth approved the sale even as a new guardian began to imagine who might wield it next. Back on the road, the Trident sits balanced in the palm, a cold helper that refuses to pretend it is merely metal. Its black earth core holds a memory of volcanic rifts and frost-veined caverns, a memory that keeps its bearer honest about power's true price—and about honoring the old oaths the world still whispers, even as silver coins clink at Saddlebag Exchange and a frost-bitten dawn climbs the next ridge.