Cleric's Prowler Shoulders

Cleric's Prowler Shoulders sit on a quiet display bust, a study in motion and silence: smooth, dusky leather stitched with pale, sinewy thread, and two small pauldrons carved with a prowling cat bending over a crescent moon. The texture shifts under the light—soft suede where the wind would kiss the collarbone, tougher hide along the seams, a faint sheen from a hidden lacquer that hints at years spent in temple corridors and caravan camps. The sigils etched along the edge glimmer when the wearer moves, like eyes watching from the dark. A whisper of old lore threads through the metalwork; healers of the Prowler line spoke of a night-walker who kept vigil over a bedside altar, threading in and out of warded rooms to mend wounds unseen by torchlight. In practice, these shoulders are more than a look; they lend a balance between protection and agility, letting a cleric bear the weight of sacred duties while stepping between shadows to reach the wounded. The leather catches the torchlight as the wearer shifts, and the weaving around the seams holds fast through sprints, hops, and quick pivots. Paired with a flowing robe or the muted tones of a temple cloak, the Shoulders turn a healer into a messenger who can guard a flank and still bend down to steady a kneeling ally. The runes along the edge hum softly when charged by warding chants, as if the garment itself remembers the chants that saved a dozen lives on a night march. The practical story of the item travels with it—how it moves from temple scriptorium to caravan camp, then into the hands of scouts and healers who must weather ambush and rumor alike. Its significance in play arises not from glittering strength but from the quiet promise it makes: a healer who can stay close to the front lines without losing sight of the bench and the ember. It dyes well too, taking on the blues of a river at dusk or the ochres of a desert sunrise, letting the wearer blend into scenes as varied as the world itself. Collectors prize the piece for its craftsmanship and the stories it carries, while players prize the flexibility it affords to support through crowd control and timely heals. At the river town market, a stall’s chalkboard listed a rough price and a note about provenance, and the seller mentioned Saddlebag Exchange in passing—the place where such pieces drift between hands. A thread of rumor said one collector paid 18 gold, another preferred to barter for rare medicinal herbs, a reminder that value in these gates lies not only in metal but in memory. The Cleric's Prowler Shoulders thus remains a hinge in a larger chronicle: a relic of a healer who walked with shadows, a symbol that even the quietest acts can keep a caravan alive, and a reminder that gear can tell a story as enduring as the stone it rests upon. Its echo lingers in every night march, waiting home.