Carrion Green Wood Trident of Torment

Carrion Green Wood Trident of Torment rests on the sill, its three prongs catching the late sun with a sickly glow. The shaft is a twisted ribbon of carrion-green wood, grain curling like faded vines under a lacquer that gleams with a dull thrift of resin and time. Carved runes thread the length, shallow and sly, as if the wood itself remembers every vow it ever heard whispered in a fevered night. The head bears three gleaming metal points, each curved slightly inward as if listening for whispered screams, while brass bindings bite around the joints, worn soft by hands that slid along the grip for balance and courage. A bone-white cap at the butt glints when you tilt it just so, a reminder that this weapon once walked through ruins where the air tasted of iron and rain. It feels alive to touch, like a thing that learned to breathe by feasting on the fear of others. The trident’s origin threads through the dim corners of memory, a relic born in a swamping hush where carrion trees swallow the light and the dead gossip in slow, patient circles. Locals say the wood was found beneath a shrine to Torment, a place where vows were bent and tenderness was traded for power. Carvers who worked the grove swore the tree remembered every lingering groan, every oath not kept, and that the weapon harvested that memory with every pull of the prongs. Some tell a darker tale—that the trident was used to peel away the bravest lies from a king’s heart, leaving him a hollow echo even as his soldiers swore they’d seen him smile. Whether truth or legend, the name sticks, as if the weapon itself insists that torment is not merely a weapon’s edge but a custody of fear. In battle, the Carrion Green Wood Trident of Torment does more than pierce. It channels a chill that settles in the air around the wielder, thinning the resolve of nearby foes and bending their will to retreat, hesitate, or falter. Three prongs mean reach and rhythm—stabs that snap shut like a trap in quick succession, sweeping tight circles that carve paths through crowded lines. The wood’s age lends a surprising steadiness to each stroke, a moment of calm that follows the flash of metal, as if the weapon itself invites restraint before rousing the storm. For a player drawn to a blend of offense and aura, the trident rewards patience, letting a careful hand turn bruising hits into a broader story of control and consequence. Market whispers travel on the harbor breeze, and in the rough markets, one trader moonlights as a collector of stories as much as he does of blades. He taps a leather pouch and shows a price tag etched into a scrap of old leather: a range that shifts with the tides of demand, the rarity of the inscriptions, and the mood of the crowd. Saddlebag Exchange is mentioned with a nod and a sly grin, a place where listings mirror rumors, where the value of this trident tightens or loosens with every new tale that crosses the docks. A buyer’s eyes gleam at the number, a seller’s jaw tightens, and the trident shifts between hands—neither fully a weapon nor simply a story—until, at last, the grove’s memory finds a home in a new owner who understands that power, like torment, is a living thing that travels with you, through days of glare and nights of quiet.