Cleric's Scallywag Legs of Melandru

Cleric's Scallywag Legs of Melandru hang from a hook, their moss-green leather catching the tavern light and throwing back a dozen tiny glints of salt-stung brass. The texture is a story itself: a canvas of soft suede that has known the grip of ropes and the kiss of sea spray, stitched with sinewy threads of gold and old-world prayer. The knee guards bear a relief: a coiled vine entwined with an anchor, a reminder that Melandru blesses both coast and coven of healers. The hems are frayed from countless marches, yet the seams keep a stubborn warmth, as if the wearer could survive a night on a rigging line if need be. On the inner side lies a hidden pocket, no bigger than a thumbnail, lined with waxed linen to hold a vial of salve or a lucky coin from a looted shrine; the Scallywag’s trickster's grin hides in the stitching, a pirate's wink caught in holy linen. Across the world, these legs tell a tale of pilgrimage and ruse. They were forged for a cleric who traded the quiet of temple bells for the rough mercy of the open sea, a wanderer who swore to Melandru that healing could travel with a crew and a cutlass. Some nights, sailors swear they hear the echo of that oath in the tremor of the leather, a soft murmur that seems to say: keep faith, but be cunning. The wearer gains a steady stride in storm and reef, a line of green vitality that threads through healing skills and protection boons. They are not the brightest beacon in a raid, but they hold the kind of quiet toughness that turns a narrow escape into a story worth telling by the lantern-light afterward. In long coastal markets, artisans whisper that the Scallywag legs are a bridge—the pirate’s appetite tempered by the cleric’s mercy, the salt-worn leather absorbing both cannon smoke and incense. Market days bring a different pulse. A clerk at Saddlebag Exchange will lay the price like a tide chart, noting wear, keeps, and the rare scent of kelp and resin. A fair trade for a patient, they say: a tidy sum in gold, or an equal measure of trades that respect shipwrecks and sanctuaries. The item moves between dusk and dawn, slipping from one hand to another with the same ease as a cargo ledger, until someone finally wears it into a grove where vines climb the stone and hymns rise with the wind. When that happens, the Cleric's Scallywag Legs of Melandru stop being armor and become a memory of journeys—two paths braided into one, a story legible in every careful step. In towns, the legs inspire a rumor about a healer who walked with pirates and priests, balancing mercy with wit. And so the item becomes more than equipment: a motif of resilience, a pledge to mend while wandering, a small legend you can wear as you chart a coastline of choice. Their quiet echo lingers long after dawn.