Rampager's Prowler Shoulders

Rampager's Prowler Shoulders sit heavy on the glass display, leather glistening with an oily patina, the fur a wind-worn cloak of midnight brown that seems to hold a memory of chase and rain. The plates are riveted with a patient roughness, edged in cracked bone and a single amber eye carved into a small clasp that stares out, as if the prowler itself has learned to look past you. The texture is paradoxically both tactile and elusive: smooth worn leather on the inside, where a hunter's grip would rest, and a rough, tethered hide on the outside that catches the light with every subtle flex of the museum’s lantern. A seam of sinew binds each scale to a shoulder guard, and along the rim a line of dark fur spills over the top like a bristling crown. In the carvings, stylized paw prints weave along the edge, traces of the jungle’s whispers, of hunts that have long since ended but never forgotten. Lore, of course, haunts the item as much as the piece hunts for its wearer. Tales say the Prowler was forged by a tribe that rode the night—hunters who spoke to the cats that stalk the undergrowth and learned to translate their shadows into steel. The Rampager’s touch is said to carry the vigor of a successful sprint through rain and thorns, a blessing of relentless forward motion. Put on by a champion who never learned to tolerate hesitation, the Shoulders are believed to grant the wearer a fraction of that creature’s instinct: the sense of when to break cover, when to angle away from the maze of enemy lines, when to press the flank and end a skirmish with a single, brutal line of attack. It’s a romance, perhaps, but a romance that pays its rent in precision and resilience. In practical terms, the Rampager’s Prowler Shoulders are a bowstring of a piece: you feel the extra hit of Power, the lean edge of Precision, and a dash of Ferocity that makes crits sing when you’re in the middle of a fight. For a ranger or a thief who wants to blend into the night, they become more than armor—they become a story you wear, a claim that you belong to the wild’s rhythm as much as the map’s. They’re not about flashy flashes of color; they’re about the quiet, constant pressure of a hunt. Market chatter drifts through the stalls as dusk settles. A seasoned vendor murmurs of prices circling the Saddlebag Exchange, where each piece finds its balance between history and demand. Traders haggle gently, a coin here, a trade there, until a buyer bags the echoes of the hunt in a parcel that smells faintly of rain and leather. And when the courier slips away, the shoulders rest once again upon the shelf, waiting for the next hunter who will hear the call of the prowler and decide to answer with steel and fur. Its story lingers in the pocket, guiding hands and footsteps.