Dire Orrian Trident of Air

The Dire Orrian Trident of Air gleams with a frost-blue edge, its shaft wrapped in salt-streaked leather and driftwood-gray steel that looks as though it was carved from a storm-tossed mast. Three tines rise like heads of wind frozen mid-sprint, each carved with spiraling runes that pulse a soft azure whenever a breeze passes along the blade. The grip bears faint scars from long campaigns, thumb notches worn smooth by hands that learned to brace against a gale. A narrow ribbon of kelp-green enamel threads the middle, catching light like a ribbon of sea and sky entwined. In the lamp-glow of a coastal market, the weapon seems to breathe, as if it remembers the roar of the breakers and the quiet sigh that follows a retreating tide. Its aura is not merely metal and wood; it carries the salt-spray memory of a thousand voyages, the hush of caves filled with air that never quite rests. Lore has always tied this trident to the Orrian fleets, those old sea-ways that braid memory with iron. They spoke of a tempest-walker who tempered a raging wind into a blade, of a forge that burned under the shadow of submerged towers, where the Trident’s blue core was coaxed into a steady, singing edge. It is said the weapon was tested in the eye of a hurricane, when rain slapped the deck like a thousand tongues and the crew swore the air itself bent to a single will. When claimed, the trident carried the sea’s own stubbornness and the skies’ sharp intellect: a tool for breaking a line, bending a patrol’s path, or guiding a retreat with the calm certainty of a lighthouse that never sleeps. To hold it is to sense a current running beneath ordinary weather, a promise that the wind can be coaxed to listen, if one knows the right question to ask. In gameplay terms, the Dire Orrian Trident of Air feels like a pact with the elements. Its wielder learns to turn gusts into openings—pushing back enemies who crowd in, or threading a path for allies through a choke point. The trident seems to invite a rhythm: strike, then summon a short breath of wind that unsettles foes, followed by a decisive lunge that cuts through defenses as if the air itself had decided to carve a shortcut. It’s the kind of weapon that rewards timing and positioning, weaving movement and space into a small, controlled storm on the battlefield. Market stories curl around its price as surely as the tide curls around a harbor. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, merchants tell of whispers and wind-chits traded as much as coin. The price shifts with the weather—calm seas, stable demand; squalls, sudden interest from captains who want a blade that can cut through a guard’s shield and a rival’s bravado alike. A buyer arrives with a careful skim of gold, a seller with a tale of a long voyage, and between the two there is a palpable sense that this trident is more than metal: it is a rumor made tangible, a promise to ride the air, to tilt a moment toward victory. And so it rests, a relic that has learned to listen to the wind, to the creak of a deck, to the soft hush after a storm. The Dire Orrian Trident of Air remains a companion for those who ride the line between sea and sky, a blade that speaks in drafts and in the careful, courageous breath of a well-timed strike.