Carrion Rogue Pauldrons of the Afflicted

The Carrion Rogue Pauldrons of the Afflicted lie heavy on the shoulder, bone-white plates curved like the jaw of a fallen hunter, stitched to cracked leather that smells faintly of rain and old ash. Rivulets of tarnished iron hold fast to frayed straps, and runes along the rim seep a pale green residue that seems to breathe in moonlight. The edges are nicked by time and trade, bearing the patina of a hundred bargains struck in dim taverns. The right pauldron bears a bark-like scar that looks as though something waited to be unwrapped; the left bears the whisper of a name scratched by someone who knew what it meant to be Afflicted. In lore, these pauldrons are said to have been forged by a caravan of rogues who knee-deep in plague wind served the Carrion—the undead with a taste for ambition—charging into night with a cloak of disease behind them. The Afflicted themselves are whispered to be those who survived the plague and then turned pain into stealth; the pauldrons are said to carry that stubborn resilience, a badge for those who move unseen while the world burns around them. They feel like a part of the world you move through, not merely armor but a rumor you carry into every alley. In actual play, their significance is less about raw numbers and more about narrative leverage: they frame a rogue who survives by outsmarting the crowd, who trades front-line bravado for feints and traps. The armor is a catalyst for a build that skims the edge of danger, turning a near-miss into another heartbeat of life. You imagine the crunch of the plates as you tumble from shadow to shadow, the ache of distance closing as you slip behind a sentinel and leave only the echo of your presence in your wake. The Afflicted motif nudges your character toward a certain kind of decision: you are not the hammer, but the whisper that tells the hammer where to swing. Market life adds its own color to the tale. In the hushed rooms of Saddlebag Exchange, someone might lay these pauldrons on a felt cloth, their ivory sheen dulled by years of travel, the price measured not in gold alone but in shared stories—the tales of a rogue who slipped through disease and steel to claim a narrow victory. Buyers and sellers trace the same line of caution: rare, coveted, a statement of identity as much as gear. When a rogue slides into a fight wearing them, the world seems to lean closer, listening for the sigh of the Afflicted and the soft clink of metal that promises both danger and restraint. And as night settles over the market, the pauldrons breathe once more, a relic and a promise threaded into the silhouette of a prowling hunter.