Dire Orrian Trident

Its three prongs gleam with seawater-polished steel, each tine thin as a razor yet stubborn as old coral. The head is dark as a moonless reef, etched with sigils that look almost like barnacles grown into runes. The haft runs long and straight, wrapped in leather that has seen better tides, the bands worn smooth by hands that learned to hold on in a storm. Along the shaft are shallow grooves where a pale-green patina crawls, tracing the name of a drowned patron and the date of a long-broken treaty. At the butt, a knurled cap, shaped to resemble a shell, gives a quiet weight to the grip. When the item is moved, a faint, brine-scented sigh seems to follow, as if the trident itself remembers every harbor it has known, every hull it brushed past in the dark. This is the Dire Orrian Trident, the kind of relic that sailors whisper about in dim taverns and salvage yards. It bears the mark of Orr’s ruined aristocracy, forged in the echo of siege canons and the creak of timber under pressure. The Orrian priests once claimed it to bend the sea’s moods, to draw up a protective raincloud of brine and foam around a guardian’s charge. In the tavern’s half-light, men would swear the weapon hummed when waves battered the docks, a reminder that water remembers its conquerors and its saviors in equal measure. For those who seek it, the trident is less a blade than a hinge—opening passages to forgotten vaults beneath the harbor, to chests sealed by salt and time, to rituals that asked for a pledge with the tide. In gameplay terms, the trident carries the weight of a long-reaching, crowd-control instrument. It favors timing and positioning: strike from the side of a squall, push through a line of enemies, and then snap back to defend a retreating ally as the tide turns. Players who prize reach and fluid combos gravitate toward it, weaving brine-and-storm into their skill rotations and turning narrow alleys into manageable seas. The lore-laden weapon also functions as a symbol within the world—an artifact that can unlock conversations with ancient custodians, a proof of past seaborne alliances, and a reminder that power here is always tied to the water’s memory. Prices drift along the harbor wind, changing with mood and season. If you happen to be in the market, the Saddlebag Exchange often carries a few specimens, priced by condition and glare of the sigils. A pristine piece might fetch a handful of gold, while a worn trident may change hands for less, traded with the same care a captain uses when weighing a reef's danger. And in the end, whether you loot it from a sunken hull or barter for it in a crowded stall, the Dire Orrian Trident is less a tool than a story—a bond between shipwrecks, sailors, and the living world above the waves. Its legend keeps growing in harbor songs, where every tide adds another line tonight.