Carrion Noble Shoulders

Carrion Noble Shoulders hang at your shoulders like the last sigh of a long-forgotten chapter—the bone-white plates curve over the collarbone, rimmed with dark brass filigree that catches the light with a muted, almost sleepy gleam. A strip of deep burgundy velvet runs along the upper edge, worn to a satin patina by hands that have traced relics and rites alike. The texture shifts between a cool, bone-like smoothness and a stubborn warmth where leather straps remember your shape. On the outer plate, a sigil is etched in blackened gold: a carrion crown encircled by thorned laurels, a reminder that power here was earned in silence and sacrifice. The edges are chipped in places, as if time itself took a careful bite, leaving the armor both more intimidating and more human to touch. Locals say these shoulders once adorned a noble necromancer who ruled a forgotten court of scavengers, trading favors with graveyard spirits and mortal rivals alike. The noble wore them not to frighten, but to bear the weight of a pact: to preserve life by acknowledging death, to turn decay into a measure of mercy. When dawn crawled across mausoleums, the shoulder plates caught the first pale sun and the sigil would gleam, binding the wearer to a covenant that promises aid to the living only after the dead have had their say. In the quiet hours between dusk and first rail of rumor, the armor carried whispers of caravans and cures, of bargains struck in candlelight and sealed with an oath etched into the metal itself. Within the heat of combat, the Shoulders become more than a fashion statement. They anchor a playstyle that leans on life, loss, and the careful choreography of the necromantic arts. The weight grounds you as you command your minions to tilt the battlefield, granting a steadying presence to sustain a fight long enough for your bleeds and poisons to do their quiet work. They feel like a hinge—allowing vitality to pulse back through your frame while your enemies stagger under the armor’s patient, bone-colored resolve. In the right hands, these shoulders read a battlefield like a diary: every applied condition, every summoned ally, a sentence that leads to another, until the story ends with the last, decisive blow. Last week, I wandered through Saddlebag Exchange, a quiet market where wind-battered banners snap and a tired merchant counts coins with the care of someone measuring futures. The price tag on the Carrion Noble Shoulders wobbled between a comfortable two gold and a festival-day spike, a few whispered silver coins riding the margins of rumor. We traded stories as smoothly as we traded goods—a map fragment for a charm, a tale of a city’s harvest for a badge of a night’s courage—and by the time the leather straps cooled against my arm, the weight of history sat not on my shoulders alone, but upon my conscience. Put on, they don’t shout for attention; they invite a listener. The Carrion Noble Shoulders tell of a lineage that walks the line between decay and devotion, a reminder that armor is more than protection—it is a passport to the next doorway, a beacon for those who understand that every end is a doorway to a new, darker beginning.