Carrion Scallywag Legs of the Afflicted

Carrion Scallywag Legs of the Afflicted hang from a rusted peg in a dim harbor shop, leather dark as tar and lacquered with brine. The knee joints are reinforced with copper rivets that glint like tarnished coins, and the straps are frayed, as if the wearer sprinted through a squall while the deck pitched beneath. The texture is a map of salt and wind: coarse grain under the finger, a seam that catches on a glove, and patches of banded leather stitched with white thread, a sailor’s knotwork that refuses to lie flat. Bone beads dangle from a pocket sewn into the thigh, and when the lantern light hits them they flash with a pale, bone-white gleam. The whole piece wears a scent of damp wood and old blood, a tangible reminder that this is more than armor—it is a relic of a raiding crew that never quite shed its plague-born reputation. They call themselves the Afflicted, a name spoken with a shrug and a wary smile, as if to acknowledge a debt they cannot fully repay. Worn, it feels like stepping into a rumor rather than clothing. The legs sit heavy with memory but light in the wind, as if they carry the ship’s ghost across broken planks. The leather is pliant, the plates surprisingly slim, allowing a nimble stride that makes even a narrow gangway feel doable. There’s a whisper of lore in the stitching: the original owner was a scallywag captain who survived a ship’s fever only to barter his own fate with a shadowy patron. The legs were pressed into service not for show but for survival, granting a quiet resilience to those who skirt the edge of danger and disease alike. A rogue, a hunter, a scavenger—these are the silhouettes that wear them. In play, the Carrion Scallywag Legs of the Afflicted function as a badge of character as much as a garment. They pair well with a hasty, deck-scrambling style, improving your ability to close gaps, grip slippery rails, and weather the when-the-fog-comes moments when you’re forced to improvise. They invite you to tell a story about a figure who survived the plague’s shadow by turning every cut of the wind into a calculated step. It’s not just about raw numbers; it’s about the mood they invoke—the sense that you move through the world with a pirate’s cunning and a patient, haunted core. Prices drift in the harbor markets, and the Saddlebag Exchange, a steady hive of traders and tides, is the place where these legs find their fair price. Some days you’ll hear a brisk, two- to three-gold tale about them; other traders will haggle you into a better bargain if you bring a story to sweeten the deal. The item’s value, after all, is as much about the legend you carry as the protection it affords, and in the right hands, a pair of legs can set the course for the next voyage, the next rumor, the next encounter with the Afflicted.