Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves

Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves gleam under a lantern's pale light, each scale a careful crescent of tempered metal that catches the room like captured starlight. The leather backing is weathered but supple, edges burnished to a smooth edge that grants a soft, almost forgiving contact with skin and cloth. Inscribed along the inner seam are sigils of healing and mercy—tiny runes that look almost as droplets frozen in time. The greaves whisper stories of a temple's forges: heat, prayer, and the patient tamping of iron until it remembers the cleric's step. Some say the scales were cooled in moonlight, a ritual to seal courage into every plate, so the wearer moves with a measured quiet that can calm a frightened squad and hold a line without a shout. When you lift them from their oil-slicked cloth, you can feel the weight of obligation as much as metal. They don’t shout their strength; they exhale it. The heft sits in the calves, the way the joints align with a healer’s careful pivot, and there’s a soft rasp of scale against scale as you push forward. It’s the kind of armor that seems to honor the body it covers—protecting, yes, but also guiding you toward the next gesture: a widening circle to answer a comrade’s plea, a steadying shield that buys a moment for a wounded ally to breathe. In the monastery-torn stories carried by caravan cooks and page-turners, these greaves are said to have soaked up more than blood; they soaked up patience, which is why a cleric can march through a siege and still kneel to mend a broken wrist afterward. In the field, the Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves are less about a flashy shield and more about trusted traction—about moving through the fray with the confidence that your footing won’t betray you at the worst possible moment. They blend resilience with a surprising ease of motion, letting a healer pivot to reach a wounded archer without losing balance, or a support priestess slip into contact with a frontline fighter to deliver a surge of restorative light. Pairs with robes or leather alike, they don’t overshadow a build so much as anchor it, giving stamina a living, breathing form. When you pair them with the right talismans and runes, the wearer becomes a conduit: a walking relief beacon in the middle of chaos, the kind of presence teams remember when the last retreat bell rings and allies count heads. Markets float through the story too, of course, where price and memory intersect. I’ve watched a midnight crowd press toward Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade tales as eagerly as gear. A cleric’s greaves, tempered and sky-bright, can move in price with the mood of the crowd, and the stall-keepers speak of them with an almost devotional tone, as if the metal itself remembers every step it helped someone take. In that crowded square, a set of greaves becomes more than armour; they become a passport to shared courage, a reminder that some protections endure because someone, somewhere, kept faith with the wearer’s path.