Carrion Privateer Pants of the Pack

Carrion Privateer Pants of the Pack hang heavy against the rail, ash-gray wool stiff with salt and time, the fabric bearing the weathered texture of a life lived on a ship’s edge. The weave is ribbed with a seam-warmed grain that catches even the faintest glint of lantern light, and brass buckles along hip and knee sigh with a sailor’s patience whenever you move. A discreet sigil—an angular crab entwined with a rope knot—stitches itself into the outer seam, a mark of the Pack’s scavenger code that whispers of raids on carrion-laden freighters and compass-worn maps tucked into hidden pockets. The pockets themselves are practical, shallow but cunningly shaped, lined with a soft felt that swallows damp and keeps parchment and blades from grimy contact. The legs taper into sturdy leather cuffs, browned by sun and spray, yet flexible enough to bend with every roll of the deck or the crouch among wreckage. The whole garment carries a scent of tar and something like distant brine, as if the wearer has absorbed the sea’s memory through cloth and thread. Lore threads weave through the texture of these pants as surely as the brass threads in their trim. They are not simply armor or clothing; they are a chapter in a larger voyage—the quiet middle of a privateer’s life and the Pack’s restless salvage economy. The Carrion Privateer Pants of the Pack were named for two strands of fate: the carrion of ships long told to rest at the bottom, and the privateer’s hunger to turn misfortune into provision. The Pack, a loose consortium of scavengers and pilots who haunt coastal markets and fogbound coves, made practical use of such gear, trusting it to carry gear, maps, and the tools of dismantling wreckage while keeping a degree of mobility on rotting decks. In their hands, these pants become more than fabric; they become a kind of weathered ally. In gameplay terms, they’re a reminder that utility can wear elegance. The pockets are not merely for show; they hold the small, indispensable tools of a salvage-run: a thin rope, a needle and thread for quick repairs, a damp map rolled and secured away from spray. The sturdy weave offers protection against scuffs and light abrasions when scrambling over timbers or sliding into a berth of cargo. And because they’re of the Pack, there’s a narrative cadence to wearing them: you’re implied to be a reader of currents, a finder of what others would overlook, a wearer who respects the salvage-born economy and the stories those nodes of value tell. Pricing, as such things go in a port of whispers, found its truth at the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle with a practiced eye over such relics. I watched a seasoned buyer press a driftwood bead and a handful of silver coins into the merchant’s palm, the kind of small, precise exchange that makes the armor feel earned rather than bought. The pants changed hands with the creak of a deck door, and I left with a sense that every seam had absorbed another wave, another story, another agreement—the waistline of the world, stitched into the Pack’s ongoing ledger.