Ravaging Steel Shield rests heavy in my palm, a disk of steel the color of winter rain, cooled to a dull sheen by decades of handling. The surface is pocked with hammer marks, each dent a memory from a smith's breath and the stubborn heat of a forge. A raised boss crowns the center, like a sun tempered by battle, and coppery runes trace a ring around it, faintly glowing when danger draws near. The rim folds into a shallow jag, not for slicing but to catch momentum and twist it away from a bearer’s arm. On the back, a lattice of rivets holds worn leather straps, the grip smooth from long use. The whole piece carries a whiff of oil, iron, and rain, as if it had weathered more storms than a man should endure. Lore says it was forged for a captain who walked the line between mercy and ruin, carried through a harbor blaze and out to safety by a shield that would not yield. In the world where it travels, the Ravaging Shield is more than protection. In the thick of a siege it feels like a hinge—the moment you time a block just right, the flow of a fight shifts. A well-timed parry buys a breath, a step forward, a chance to press the assault while the front line steadies itself. The shield’s aura—the glow around the copper runes—seems to discipline the nerves, making fear a crack in the wall rather than a floodgate. Frontline veterans tell new recruits that the shield teaches patience as much as defiance: how to absorb the next blow, how to answer with a measured counter, how to keep a wounded comrade in the line of march. I found mine in a street-side market, where a caravan called Saddlebag Exchange keeps strange wares moving from harbor to hillside. The stall keeper laid the Ravaging Shield on a rough cloth and traced the runes with a weathered fingertip, telling me the shield had survived a long night and a longer morning of bombardment. The tag read in gold-ink a price that hovered around nine gold coins, not a fortune, yet enough to remind a buyer that history costs something. We haggled with the ease of old hands, trading stories as much as coins, until I walked away with the shield strapped to my pack and a new chapter to read in its copper glow. Out here, the shield keeps pace with the road. It pairs with a healer’s calm, a guardian’s patience, a berserker’s tempo—whatever tempo a skirmish demands. It is not merely metal; it is a ledger of every blade that struck near, every dawn that followed a night of fear, every promise kept to a band of travelers who trusted to one stubborn circle of steel to see them through.