Assassin's Hard Wood Trident

Assassin's Hard Wood Trident gleams with the stubborn patience of a forest that has learned to survive the world’s knives. Its shaft is a single bolt of iron-hard wood, dark as storm-kissed bark, the grain running like whispered armor. Three tines rise from a forged ferrule, the middle one longest and carved to a needle-thin point, the outer two curved slightly inward as if to cradle a target in a careful embrace. The finish is a dull satin, lacquered so no sap drips and no splinters threaten. The grip is wrapped in worn leather, tattered at the edges but still secure, the wraps smelling faintly of resin and rain. Along the length, runes—faint and silvered—dance in a pattern that collectors call the Night-thread, a signature rumored to be tied to a guild of quiet hands and patient killers. No myth, some say, because the wood itself hums when the blade is moved. In the stories that drift through markets and taverns, the Assassin's Hard Wood Trident is more than metal and wood; it is a promise of silence. It is said to have been whittled from a tree that grew on a moonlit slope, its grain thick with memory, then sealed with a resin that keeps armor from clinking too loudly under its belly of wood. Those who once carried it spoke of precision: a thrust that finds the gaps in plate and a pull that leaves a foe listening to their own heartbeat. It is favored by bladesmen who prefer closish conversation with danger, who trust reach enough to test a guard's patience but not so long as to invite a reckless swing. In practice, the trident becomes a quiet argument with the battlefield: a quick stab, a pivot on a heel, a feint that hides the next cut, a pivot again, and suddenly you’re moving where you need to be, not where you planned to be. The world, of course, moves around supply and demand, and the saddle-sellers know the language of wood and will. In the backroom stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, a broker once whispered that a pristine Assassin's Hard Wood Trident is worth more than the memory of its last owner’s footsteps. A few coppers to make it sing, a little more to keep the grip from drying out in the sun. The chatter says a truly seasoned example carries a price that echoes through caravans and keeps the markets honest, trading hands from one collector to another with a respect that borders on ritual. People don't just buy this trident; they inherit its chorus—the quiet promise that a piece of the forest will walk with you, step you through a moonlit night, and remind you that power, when balanced with restraint, can be a friend as much as a weapon. There, in the quiet that follows, the Assassin's Hard Wood Trident settles back into its story—a tool, a relic, a blade with the patience to wait for the turn of a leaf and the courage to strike when it comes.