Berserker's Prowler Shoulders

Berserker's Prowler Shoulders glints first as a flash of dusk-metal, then as a memory pressed into leather. The pauldrons are a storm-torn blend of hammered iron plates and tanned hide, trimmed with a fur that whispers with every movement like a living shadow. The surface bears claw-slashed etchings that catch the light and throw it back as a rough, predatory gleam. Across one pauldron a ridge of brass runs in a jagged line, as if a prowler's tooth had been pressed into the metal to mark a hunter's oath. The strapwork is sturdy and worn, the leather softened to the point of almost caressing the skin. A small sigil—two entwined daggers over a prowling cat—is stamped into the backside, barely visible unless you tilt your head. It is the sort of piece that looks as if it has walked a long road, listening for the right moment to roar. In its lore, the shoulders carry the rumor of a berserker who led a pack of prowlers into the clamor of a siege, a figure said to have bound the ferocity of beast and man into a single, furious banner. They say the hide came from a champion of the jungle—taken after a hunt that lasted until dawn—stitched to the armor by a craftsman who believed rage could be kept in check by ritual and care. The result is not merely protection but a story worn on the body, a reminder that fury can be turned into strategy when the right hands know how to tilt it. When you lift the shoulders, you feel a weight that is less about metal and more about the chase—it’s the kind of piece that suggests the wearer is always listening for the next thing to answer to. On the battlefield, those myths translate into something tangible: a surge of power that complements precise, calculated strikes. The shoulders frame the wearer’s silhouette with a hunter’s silhouette—broad enough to shrug off the first blow, sleek enough to slip into the next moment of velocity. They invite you to push beyond safe rhythm, to trust the rhythm of your own crits and chances, to turn a stand into a sprint. Paired with the right weapon and a careful sense of timing, Berserker's Prowler Shoulders become a drama you act out with your whole body—a chorus of leather, fur, and steel that screams, in a single breath, that you intend to win. I drifted into the market, where the racks of gear glowed under lantern light, bargaining with a trader who called himself a keeper of bargains. At Saddlebag Exchange, the vendor’s board listed a price in gold that shifted with the hour, a reminder that desire is a living thing here. We traded coins and stories, and by the time I walked away with the shoulders slung over my shoulder, the tale had changed shape again—the item no longer a trophy, but a sure thing in the next fray. Some days later the echo of the prowler lingered in the morning light.