Knight's Prowler Shoulders

Knight's Prowler Shoulders catch the light with a quiet menace, a pair of darkened steel pauldrons hammered to whisper-soft edges. The surface bears a fine pitting, a grain like rain on armor, and along the rim runs a tight filigree of runes that glow faintly when a blade is drawn—not a spell, perhaps, but a memory catching flame. On the outside, a prowler motif leaps across the plates: a stylized feline in motion, claws sheathing a night-black crescent, eyes inlaid with green glass that seem to follow you as you move. The leather beneath is worn but supple, a tide of black hide stitched with copper thread, adapting to your shoulder shape like a trusted glove. The whole piece exudes a veteran's breath—something that has ridden through fog, dust and rumor, and somehow learned your name in the dark. Lore whispers that knights once wore these shoulders on long patrols through roving night streets and caravan trails, guardians who spoke in whispers and moved with the wind. The pieces carry that memory in their weight, the sense that they know the difference between a shadow and a threat, between a pause and a pivot. They say the shoulders were forged to endure long watches, to keep a soldier’s heart steady when the road turned throat-dry and the enemy came at night. In gameplay terms, they’re more than simply armor; they signal a player who favors precision and swift, surgical strikes. Paired with light boots and a quiet off-hand, they encourage a skirmisher’s tempo—blooming into a moment of crit and retreat, a whisper of a step that cuts the gap before the other side can blink. The prowler motif nudges you toward stealth’s ethos, even as the metal itself keeps you honest to the daylight you must stand in when the lanterns burn low. Market moments layer the object with another kind of story. I found them at the edge of the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay out brass, cloth, and old stories in a low, cinnamon-scented air. The stallkeeper unfurled the price with a practiced tilt of the head: Knight's Prowler Shoulders, 2 gold and 60 silver, a rate that waggled with enchantments and patchwork repairs. We spoke in breaths, swapping a bundle of salvaged cloth for a tale of a caravan route plagued by prowlers, while the chalk-scaled ledger behind him kept its own rhythm. In that moment it felt less like purchase and more like a crossing—the armor moving from one life to another, a quiet transfer of trust. If you wanted it, the Saddlebag Exchange could temper the demand with a sympathetic ear: a discount offered for a story of long patrols, or a trade for a different piece bearing the same night-mind. By dusk, the shoulders rested against my own, not merely as metal but as a chapter. They carried the road’s weight, the memory of a night patrol, and the steady promise that a prowler never surrenders the lead. In that exchange of hands—the coin, the tale, the gleam of the emerald eyes—Knight's Prowler Shoulders became a thread in a larger fabric: a world where armor is never just protection, but a signature, a rumor that you are still listening when the lanterns go out.