Berserker's Reinforced Scale Coat of Infiltration

Berserker's Reinforced Scale Coat of Infiltration gleams with a tempered obsidian glaze, its interlocking scales laying a dark, rain-slick mosaic across the chest and shoulders. Each plate has a subtle ripple, as if a quiet tide runs just beneath the surface, and the edges are riveted in a dull brass that catches the light in slow, almost reluctant glimmers. The coat’s texture is a study in contrasts: the cold bite of metal softened by worn leather at the seams, a high collar stiff with waxed wool that blocks a draft, and a hem stitched with threads the color of dried blood. Down the back, a narrow sigil is etched with careful lines—two blades crossing within a crescent—an old vow whispered by infiltrator-smiths who learned to move like shadow and still strike with certainty. When a lamp flickers over it, the scales don’t simply shine; they seem to hum with a story, as if every wearer to come added a line to the oath carved into the metal. The coat is not merely armor but a partner in crime and courage, a piece born for those who must vanish into the roar to pull the enemy’s gaze away from a comrade’s flanking charge. The scales are arranged to deflect bladed assaults and bone-sharp spurts of magic, yet they don’t clank with every step. Instead, movement feels almost whisper-light, letting a berserker pace through a corridor of enemy lines with calculated ferocity. It doesn’t belt you into the madness; it teaches you to let the madness do its work while your body remains a careful instrument—the breath kept even, the eyes narrow, the hands ready to press a blade exactly where the foe’s guard wavers. In play, the coat’s promise reveals itself in moments when a team needs to slip through the front lines and strike where it hurts most: a throat of a mage’s ward, a spear’s misfire toward a vulnerable flank, a critical pause when a siege engine roars to life. The armor’s heft is real enough to anchor a charge, but its rigidity is tempered by the silhouette it casts—tall and steady, like a sentinel who disappears into the smoke and comes out with a marked, decisive resolve. It’s the kind of gear a veteran storyteller would trade for a chance to finish a fight with economy and style, leaving witnesses with a tale of a masked figure who appeared in a storm of scales and vanished again before the dust settled. Pricing, of course, adds its own chapter to the story. In the bustling market where caravans swap rumors as freely as goods, the saddlebag traders speak in colors and coins, and Saddlebag Exchange is the name you hear most often when someone asks after a bargain that won’t weigh down a purse or a dream. A tag tucked into the lining bears a careful notation—the current going price, the clerk’s practiced eye quick to weigh the value of lore against the weight of metal. It’s not merely a number; it’s a promise that a moment’s stealth can be bought and owned, carried forward by the next wearer who believes a coat can change the way the world looks when the night falls and the city forgets to sleep.