The Recipe: Ruka's Trident rests on a damp shelf in the harbor’s back room, a parchment sheet browned by sun and spray, its edges curled like the tide. The name is written in a curling script, the letters looping into tiny doodles of coral and knotwork. A wax seal depicting a conch shell presses into the corner, though the seal is cracked, as if the sea has whispered its secrets too many times. The ink-blue diagram shows a three-pronged head, each tine etched with tiny runes, and a shaft wrapped in salt-worn leather. When you tilt it toward the lamplight, the parchment seems to shimmer as if the recipe itself might breathe—as if Ruka, the old mariner who once sailed these waters, left a glimmering note for whoever dared to wake the tide. The moment you study it, you hear a long, patient story about the sea’s bargaining with the forge. To craft Ruka's Trident is to bind craft to current: the metal tempered with brine, the driftwood carved from trees that grew where the waves remember last year’s storms, and coral inlays plucked from sunken ruins where guardians still whisper in broken tongues. It is said the trident’s head is shaped to catch the precise moment a wave breaks, so a strike ripples through armor and leaves the target breathless, as if the water itself paused to listen. The recipe promises more than a weapon; it offers passage into a lineage of captains who trusted the sea more than any map. In practice, the weapon becomes a quiet hinge in a greater drama. Those who wield it learn to read battles like coastlines: the blade’s reach favors sweeping arcs over crowded decks, and its magic thrives where water meets steel. It can braid currents into controlled bursts, heal allies with tidal pulses, or unleash a cannonade of sonic streams that shove foes off balance. The trident’s power isn’t only about damage; it’s tempo—the way a wielder can steer a fight as surely as a captain steers a schooner through fog. When paired with the right companions, Ruka’s Trident can grant a brief, shimmering aura that steadies allies on slick ground, or sharpen the party’s coordination in climactic, rain-slick skirmishes. And because of its lore, there’s always a whisper that Ruka’s spirit still lends a hand to crew and coast alike, guiding those who respect the sea’s quiet authority. On the market, the talk of the recipe moves with the tide. I wandered the docks and checked Saddlebag Exchange, where traders stash ledgers and legends alike. Prices drift with wind and leverage, rising and falling as new rumors wash ashore. One evening a veteran merchant slid a worn parchment across the table and spoke of a bid that could unlock more than metal—a pact of goodwill with a few relics tossed in as courtesy. Others insist the recipe is worth a higher sum, certain that a trident forged from it will turn a quiet sailor into a captain of mischief and mercy. The ledger’s entries float like boats at anchor, and the exchange feels less like commerce than a living map of risk, reward, and the sea’s unpredictable mood. By dusk, the recipe’s ink still glimmers faintly on the page, and the harbor’s song folds into the flame’s glow. Crafting Ruka’s Trident becomes a voyage in miniature, a ritual that binds a maker’s hands to a legend’s heart. The document is a doorway, and what lies beyond is a coastline of choices: defend a fleet, carve a path through a crowded point, or simply listen as the tide tells its oldest tale through the wind in your sails.