Mighty Worn Scale Helm of the Citadel

Mighty Worn Scale Helm of the Citadel sits on a weathered peg, its layered scale plates catching the lamplight with a stubborn gleam. Its brow guard arches over a faint fissure of patina, the scales running in a tide of smoky greens and iron brown, the edges pitted from long days on the frontline. A leather strap runs along the rim, stitched with copper thread that catches the light like a sparking ember. The helm bears the faint crest of the Citadel, etched in dull brass that has weathered to a memory of sieges and parley. Its texture is more than skin; it holds the grit of battles and the patience of smiths. Runic engravings curl along the inside rim, not to boast but to remind the wearer that protection is a duty, not a prize. When dawn spills across the harbor, I find it in the hands of a wanderer, the helm resting against his ribs like a sealed vow. The mighty worn scales whisper of long marches, of bridges burned and rebuilt, of recruits stepping into the Citadel's shadow with a stubborn glare. In practical terms, it is heavy enough to steady a head in a gale, and the layered plates deflect glancing blows as if the wind itself were misrouted into metal. But its true weight lies in the stories it carries—of a citadel that stood long before most of us and a guard who did not bow to fear. In the market of a riverport, vendors spread their wares in a rainbow of leathers and glints, and the Mighty Worn Scale Helm is never far from being traded, tested, and told over mugs of ale. I watch it cross a column as a trader—a gaunt man with calloused hands and a smile like cracked porcelain—calls it “a veteran’s helm,” and his fingers drum the table as if the retort of coins could speak. Nearby, the Saddlebag Exchange—a nest of canvas and bellows—presents the helm with a tag scribbled in chalk and a line of tiny coins drawn beside it. The merchant leans in to tell me the price is more than a night of rest in a quiet inn, but not a fortune when you consider the stories etched into the brass crest. We bargain, and he accepts the old trade—leathers, herbs, a map with a torn corner—until the helm is carried away by a young fighter who wants not merely to wear it but to walk with the Citadel’s old shield and begin writing new pages. Back at the docks, the helm glints in the sun, and the memory of marching boots travels with me as I step away. So I leave with memory and the sense that the Citadel watches over us.