Assassin's Elder Wood Trident

Assassin's Elder Wood Trident rests on a weathered counter, its three prongs catching the lamplight with a cold, silvered gleam. The shaft is elder wood, the grain tight and dark as a forest floor after rain, with a faint pulse of green at its heart where resin has pooled. A band of iron rings the middle, pitted from storms and the hands of smiths, while a carved grip wraps in worn leather that has learned many journeys. Along the length, silver runes curl in discreet spirals, catching edges of light and speaking of silent vows in a language only the night remembers. The tip of the weapon holds a pale alloy that looks almost fossilized, a subtle hinge for the prongs that seems to promise both restraint and reach. When you tilt it toward the glow, the texture shifts—bark-like ridges that itch under fingertips, a scent of pine and rain rising from the wood, a cool chill that seems to trace your pulse. Locals tell a patient story about the elder wood: a tree grown at the edge of a long-forgotten covenant, its rings threaded with memories of those who moved through shadows. Some say the Assassin's Elder Wood Trident was wrought by a reclusive guild of quiet sentinels who traded whispers for steel, binding a code into every strike. In the telling of it, the weapon is less tool and more talisman—an instrument that keeps a pace with a hunter’s breath. In play, the trident is a patient companion, a weapon that favors measured distance and precise opportunity over brute force. Its length keeps a user from rushing a charge, while its weight allows crisp, mid-range thrusts that pierce armor and leave a cold trace of air behind. It invites a dancer’s rhythm: feint, pivot, then a clean puncture that opens a path through the press of enemies. When paired with stealth-oriented tactics, a well-timed strike can create room to slip away, a second life found in the space between footfalls. The elder wood seems to remember every step, and that memory lends the wielder a quiet confidence, as if the blade itself could tilt a scene toward secrecy. In the marketplace of stories, Saddlebag Exchange is where such a blade travels through rumor into a real-world pocket. I watched a trader lean over the counter, tracing the runes with a fingertip and murmuring about the trident’s demand among scouts and street watch alike. The price tag—spoken softly, almost as a dare—hung around three gold and fifty silver, though a practiced haggle could shave a full gold if you knew the right tavern-quiet smile to offer. The Exchange breathes with the cadence of caravans and moonlit alleys, a place where rarity compounds with desire and everyone believes their story can bend the market’s will for a single night. The Assassin's Elder Wood Trident, once drawn from a cloth-wrapped case and set on display, becomes more than a blade: it becomes a map of where you’ve been and where you might go, a slender thread linking the night to the next dawn.