Cleric's Reinforced Scale Coat of Lyssa

Cleric's Reinforced Scale Coat of Lyssa gleams under the lamplight, its surface a mosaic of interlocking plates that breathe with every step. Each scale is a crescent of pearl-gray steel, edged in a whisper of ebony lacquer, catching the glow and throwing it back in a cascade of lilac sparks. The texture is unsettlingly tactile: cool and smooth where the plates meet, but slightly gritty along the ridges, as if the fabric had learned to stand its ground against the world. The coat’s shoulders fan out, and along the back a thin thread of silver rune-work follows the spine like a river of starlight, pulsing when a nearby chant stirs the air. The front breast bears Lyssa’s sigil—an hourglass entwined with a thread of dreams—carved so finely that the metal seems almost alive to the eye. It isn’t merely armor; it is a compact reliquary of the goddess’s whim, tempered by the wearer’s courage and burden. In lore, clerics who guard the thin edges between sleep and waking asked Lyssa for protection that could bend without breaking. They believed the scales could drink in magic and spill some of its force into warding a circle, a shield that could shiver at the touch of a nightmare without cracking. So the coat learned to hum with resonance: when a spelltrooper or healer moved within its reach, the sigils glowed a pale violet and the wearer felt a whisper of resolve settle in the bones. It is said to have survived sieges and whispered negotiations with dream-spirits, a garment that kept faith intact when doubt pressed hard enough to crack reality. On the battlefield and in the sanctuaries, the coat is prized not only for its beauty but for its usefulness. The reinforced scales grant steady protection while not slamming shut the wearer’s agility; the weave harmonizes with sigil-driven builds that rely on concentration, granting a subtle boost to focus and the efficiency of heals and barrier spells. In practice, go into a ruin with the coat and you’ll notice the magic around you coalescing into a shield that feels almost personal: when you send healing light across the party, the light appears to braid itself with the sigil’s glow, as if the goddess herself were lending a steadying hand to the effort. Markets in the port cities, the talk of caravans and auction-ground rumors, often drift toward a coat like this when a seller wants a tale to accompany a price. A recent listing at Saddlebag Exchange spoke of an immaculate specimen, priced enough to make a careful buyer pause, then decide that some relics are worth the pause. The figure hovered around a couple of gold pieces, a sum that would buy a reliable mount and a quiet morning, but for a cleric who walks the line between mercy and inevitability, it was a price paid for a memory you wear as much as you wear it. And so the coat travels, from temple to trail, collected by hands that seek to guide others through nights that do not end in sunrise. In the end, its value isn’t only in the metal or the myth; it’s in the shared story—the way Lyssa’s dream-threaded armor becomes a part of the person who dares to walk into a room full of shadows and stand firm, with light woven through the scales like a quiet oath.