Carrion Reinforced Scale Pauldrons of Grenth

Carrion Reinforced Scale Pauldrons of Grenth rest upon the shoulders like a second, colder crown. The plates are a dusk-tinged obsidian, each scale a chipped sliver of bone that catches the light with a faint, sickly green glow. Carved sigils coil along the rims, tiny wards that crackle when necrotic energy passes through, and the leather beneath is braided with sinewy cords that whisper with every movement. The pauldrons carry the scent of old rain on stone and the unmistakable weight of a pact sealed in a ritual circle, a relic forged in the shadowed hours between life and death. The emblems of Grenth—the tilted scythe, the hungry moon—are pressed into the metal, not just decoration but as a reminder that power comes with a price. They feel heavier when you stand at the edge of a graveyard, as if the world itself leans closer to listen. In the field, a necromancer might lift them and feel the air turn cooler, the air thick with the sigh of released souls. They reinforce not only the wearer’s frame but the tether to the North Wind of the afterlife, guiding the bearer’s steps as they negotiate with spirits who would rather be left undisturbed. In practical terms, the pauldrons anchor necrotic energy, allowing the wearer to sustain wards, bend shadows, and siphon a portion of life from those who threaten the living. They are not a blunt instrument; they are a conduit. Put simply, they make a wearer more patient, more deliberate, and more able to let the dead speak through the battlefield. In a proper expedition, they pair with quiet mages who rely on steady, measured pulses of energy. A guardian’s shield might clash with a necromancer’s charm, but the Grenth pauldrons find a middle path: they survive the frontline, while enhancing the subtle, creeping aspects of combat—curses laid with surgical precision, blighted chains that tighten around an opponent, or a specter that lingers at the corner of your vision. For those who walk between life and its margins, these pauldrons are less armor and more oath. They remind you that every victory in the field becomes a memory carried by the dead you’ve outlived. The price of such an oath, of course, is never simple. At Saddlebag Exchange, a market stall that smells of waxed leather and old coins, a wary trader once quoted a price half paid in coins and half in favors owed. A buyer’s nod, a whisper of debt transferred, and the pauldrons found a new home, the buyer’s breath turning to frost as the sigils brightened for a heartbeat and then quieted. The story of these pauldrons moves on with every new wearer, a thread in the larger tapestry, a reminder that death is not an end but a channel through which power travels. Some days you find yourself listening to the metal, where every clang is a confession.