Cleric's Tempered Scale Pauldrons

Cleric's Tempered Scale Pauldrons gleam in the dim shrine light, each plate a curved shard of bronze-tinged scalework lacquered with a silvery, living patina. The shoulders rise in ceremonial fashion, layered like the armor of a guardian bird, with edges ground to a soft serration that catches the glow of candlelight. Upon the surface, minute runes are etched in a script borrowed from temple artisans, threads of cobalt and moss-green enamel winding between plates. A leather underlayer shows its wear in faint grooves, proof of journeys—courier routes, siege wards, quiet vigils—where the pauldrons carried their wearer through storms of flame and sighs of dust. In lore, these pauldrons were forged in old kilns that tempered metal and mercy. They are said to bear the blessing of a hidden order, clerics who walked between wards and prayers, humming lullabies to the wounded as the scales kept pace with every breath. Some tell of a storm-touched caravan sheltering in a ruined temple, where smiths tempered shards into these final wares. Since then, the Cleric's Tempered Scale Pauldrons have traveled between monastery storerooms and trading posts, a symbol of restraint and healing, a reminder that armor can be a mercy as much as a blade. Gameplay-wise, they feel like they carry that history into battle. Wearers speak of the way the scales shimmer when a healing aura touches the wounded, how the pauldrons seem to draw the sting away from allies as if the armor itself breathes a soft, protective exhale. In the rhythm of coordinated tactics, they help buff support builds—slight boosts to healing throughput, steadier shields, and a readiness to pivot from assault to aid at a moment's notice. They are not the loudest piece in a squad, but their presence shapes the tempo: a patient, deliberate mercy that lets the party weather a push and recover. Markets never stay quiet about such prized gear, and the Saddlebag Exchange is where those rumors first take form in coin and barter. I watched a trader pull the pauldrons from a wheeled case, their shine catching the noon light, and he priced them with a whisper—gold coins and rare ore, counters of history. A cleric broker leaned in, ticking off stories as much as numbers, hinting that in a well-tuned party, a bargain there could be swayed by favors or dyed leathers traded for a measure of veneration. It’s not just the steel, but the tale—the long corridor of hands that have touched the pauldrons—that keeps their price alive, measured in trust and the promise of shelter when the world grows too cruel. When the day closes and the market sighs shut, the Cleric's Tempered Scale Pauldrons remain, a quiet oath worn on the shoulders, bearing witness to mercy in a world that never stops asking for it.