Berserker's Banded Legs of Lyssa

The Berserker's Banded Legs of Lyssa gleam under torchlight, a mosaic of hammered brass bands girding pale leather. Each plate catches the flame and returns it with a harsh, almost eager glint. Along the outer thigh, Lyssa's sigil rides in low relief—curved lines stitched with gold and exertion. The knee joints hinge smoothly, letting a stride snap into a sprint; the interior smells of pine resin and oil, with a faint iron tang from long travel. The surface bears nicks from wind and rain, yet the bands stay true, like armor that remembers every glare of battle. In the old smith's catalog, these legs were whispered to belong to a hunter who bargained with Lyssa herself for speed and cunning, a figure who learned to turn a moment into motion and trust the next strike to follow. The sigils carved along the bands pulse faintly when combat begins, as if the goddess herself is counting. On the field, the legs are more instrument than ornament. They are built for a roving, offense-first approach—light enough to dance between blows, sturdy enough to survive the rush. With them, a warrior can open with a brutal slash and ride a brutal cadence as the bands ring against shield and skin. They amplify Ferocity and Precision, letting a hit land with sharp certainty while the body recovers the next breath in a heartbeat. In skirmishes that might otherwise falter, they tilt the scales toward momentum, turning hesitation into a window of opportunity. Their presence helps write the larger story of Tyria's borderlands: a world where a lone striker can melt into the sound of footfalls and reappear, unhurt, to press the advantage. Markets nowadays hum with such legends, and buyers hover close to the stalls, listening for the right price. At Saddlebag Exchange I watched a trader parry and feint over the brass-tucked leg, the dialogue precise as a blade's edge. The tag dangled at the ankle, a price that marks danger as valuable and speed as scarce as gold. The exchange's ledger kept pace, tallying coins in a language only those who hunt with both courage and caution truly understand. For the right wielder, these legs are not merely gear but a vow: to move faster, strike cleaner, and belong to a lineage that has learned to read the currents of combat the way a mariner reads the tide. On the skin, the metal hums with the wear of battles remembered—a patina that only a true bearer can hear, turning every footfall into a small chorus. Step after step, you seem to tug the dawn closer, while Lyssa's gaze lingers on the banners and the next campfire rumor. Some mornings it wears the dream of victory itself.