Berserker's Privateer Shoulders of the Lich

The Berserker's Privateer Shoulders of the Lich sit heavy on the collarbone, a silhouette of storm-polished brass that seems to hum with salt and old oath. The pauldron flares outward in two sweeping crescents, edged with bone-white studs and faint chips that catch the light like shards of a broken moon. A seam of deep-green lacquer runs along the joint, glowing faintly with necromantic pulse, as if the wearer wears a heartbeat made of kelp and steel. The back is wrapped in weathered leather, braided with black cords that whisper when the wind comes through a deck-side rigging. On the front, a sigil—an anchor entwined with a skeletal skull—scrawls into dark steel, so fine that it seems to drink the light rather than reflect it. In its lore, this piece ties a berserker’s hunger to a privateer’s cunning. Old mariners tell of a lich who sailed on moonless nights, binding the crew to feed what the sea demanded and to fight for the safety of the hull. The shoulder plates were hammered by a shipwright who learned dead tongues from a helmsman who never quite left the water. The Lich’s mark is not merely ornament; it is a pact inscribed into bronze and leather, a talisman that wakes the moment a raid begins and urges the wearer to push past pain until the deck runs with the echo of their own strikes. When you slip these shoulders on, you feel it—an alloy of impetus and restraint. The Berserker’s Privateer set is built for the charge: Power and Ferocity flare, Precision tightens the aim, and the Lich’s aura steals a fraction of the damage that would be taken and returns it as momentum. In open-world skirmishes, in climactic moments, the shoulders frame your silhouette like a defender’s banner while you ride a surge of adrenaline into the enemy lines. They pair with leather coats and rigging-wrapped gauntlets to tell a story of raiders who traded plunder for passages through storms, who learned to bend necromancy to keep their boats afloat and their crews breathing. I’ve watched the market breathe around them, too. At Saddlebag Exchange—the sun-drenched pier-stalls where traders barter in stories as much as coin—the chatter shifts with tides and rumors. Today a veteran hawker spoke of a fresh shipment from a coastal town; the Lich sigil caught the eye of a dozen buyers, and the price slid and rose with the laughter of a dozen tongues until a deal closed—two helmsmen’s worth, or thereabouts, depending on who you asked. The shopkeepers smile, knowing that a piece like this is never merely armor; it’s a passport to chapters you’ll tell at taverns and in regimental lines, a relic that makes strangers imagine the sea has a bone-hard heart and a furious, loyal crew willing to defend it to the last wave. In moments after a rout, I picture the Lich’s shadow folded into the leather, the memory guiding those who wear it toward ports where honor and vengeance share compass.