Cleric's Barbaric Pauldrons

Cleric's Barbaric Pauldrons lie heavy on the rack, a pair of shoulders carved from memory and weather. The plates are a muted bronze, scarred with runes that look carved in haste and polished by rain. Across the curve, bone-white leather peels back like old parchment, and sinew-stitching holds it together; tiny studs of iron punctuate the edges, turning quiet mass into a ritual silhouette. A raised ridge runs along the collarbone line, echoing the ceremonial spine of the temple that forged it, while crude bone inlays glint when light catches them. The texture feels old and lived, as if the pauldrons have seen both sermon and skirmish; they carry the smell of lamp oil and distant markets, of waxed banners and rain-streaked stone. Those who first wore them were temple guardians, sworn to protect holy relics and heal the wounded with whispered blessings. In the field, the pauldrons are less a fashion statement than a statement of purpose: they ground the wearer in the moment, the weight a reminder that mercy and force can move as one. The Barbaric cut—broad shoulders, rough edges, and a practical sense—speaks of a tradition that valued resilience as much as rite. Lore threads through the leather like a stitchwork map: a rite of passage for those who chose healing under fire, a tale told in temple halls where banners hang heavy with history. In actual play, the cleric's barbaric pauldrons tend to mark the wearer as someone who can take a punch and still pivot to mend a comrade. They pair with a sturdy shield or a focused staff, letting the bearers pivot from frontline resilience to urgent cleansing and restored vigor without losing balance. They shade the arcanist’s light with the grit of field medicine, making it easier to line up a heal while absorbing a blow that would shatter lesser armor. And when a moment of desperation blooms in a siege or skirmish, the sigils etched along the rim seem to pulse—an echo of the temple’s heartbeat guiding the group through the chaos. Market chatter adds another thread to the story. In the crowded stalls that spill from the old city walls, a clerk taps at a ledger beside a glass case and mentions Saddlebag Exchange, where such pauldrons float between buyers with a mixture of reverence and market pragmatism. Prices shift with demand, the reputation of the smith, and the close of a temple contract, yet the value of these pauldrons remains more than coin: they carry a responsibility, a story, and a promise that a healer can stand firm when the world presses in. If you press your palm to the leather and listen, you’ll hear the echo of steps those guardians once took, turning fear into steadiness, pain into care, and a rugged coat of armor into a living vow. After battle, I have watched such pauldrons gleam again, a survivor’s badge and a reminder that protection is a story carried forward, never merely a burden borne alone together.