Cleric's Rascal Shoulders

Cleric's Rascal Shoulders gleam under lamplight, two crescent-shaped plates of pale pewter leather curved to cradle the shoulders like patient watchers. The surface wears a whisper of age—grainy texture that catches every flicker of flame and dawn light, a fine lattice of gold thread tracing sigils along the seam, and a row of tiny bronze bells at the outer rims that chime with every measured step. A central crest bears a carved mask: half solemn cleric, half roguish jester, as if the wearer carries mercy and mischief in equal measure. The inside is lined with a velvet that smells faintly of lilac ink and old prayer scrolls, and the stitching along the edge glows faintly when blessing energy pools within reach. It’s a relic that looks at once like sanctuary and street, a paradox you can feel in the weight of its lacquered leather and the delicate tinkle of its bells. Lore has threaded its way into the markets with quiet certainty. The Cleric's Rascal Shoulders are said to have been forged in a caravan monastery that traveled from plague wards to festival squares, where healers mended wounds by day and humor kept spirits alive by night. The rascality motif comes from a healer who believed that a smile could heal a patient as surely as any salve, and that instruction must sometimes arrive with a wink to soften fear. Over the years the set, sometimes paired with similar reliquaries in the Rascal line, acquired a reputation: wearers blend steadiness with a spark, and those around them feel steadier, too, as if courage and mercy wear a lighter coat when these shoulders rest upon them. In play, the piece has never felt out of place in a dynamic world of peril and luminous banners. It is the kind of accessory that whispers to a healer or support-minded adventurer, offering boosts to healing power and boon duration while granting a subtle aura of resilience. The bells—though small—sort of breathe with you, releasing a faint chorus whenever you heal an ally or cleanse conditions nearby. It’s not a weapon’s shout, but a soft encouragement that helps your party weather the toughest ambushes. The shoulders invite you to imagine your role in the wider story: a guide who steadies the march, a cheerful steward who keeps the caravan moving through fear and fatigue, a friend whose kindness has a measurable, almost tactical, advantage in crowded, chaotic fights. Price and trade fold naturally into the tale when I walked past Saddlebag Exchange, a stall row that leans with the weight of a thousand hoofprints and a hundred stories. A roguish vendor pressed the weight of history into the palm of my glove and offered a price that spoke of rarity and demand, then shuffled a handful of trade-in relics across the counter with a practiced grin. The market’s ebb and flow—the way the price drifts with demand, the way a trader’s eye judges condition—felt like a microcosm of the world’s larger currents. In that moment the Cleric's Rascal Shoulders stopped being a mere item and became a bridge: between healing and humor, between a quiet monastery road and the raucous, winding markets where travelers barter faith, fortune, and flair.