Cleric's Cabalist Legs of the Centaur

Cleric's Cabalist Legs of the Centaur rest on the table like a pair of ancient, ceremonial bones, their leather still carrying the scent of saddle soap and rain. The thighs rise with a measured bulk, tanned to a deep, ember-brown that shifts to bronze under lamplight. Over the shins, segmented plates of dusky brass are etched with a looping motif—centaur silhouettes in mid-stride, hooves and hoarfrost traced in silver thread. A seam of greened leather threads along the knee bears sigils that glow faintly when the air thickens with magic, as if ready to hum with a patient, healing energy. The inside is lined with rough, honey-colored cloth that scratches pleasantly against skin, and tiny brass hooks dangle from the thigh—the sort of detail a scavenger might miss, yet a careful eye would recognize as quietly ceremonial. The buckles, shaped like entwined lances, gleam with a dull, respectful light, as though the wearer’s footsteps themselves were part of an oath. Lore says these legs were forged not merely to protect a healer’s stride but to temper it with the rhythm of a centaur herd—the Cabalist order’s rite-makers moving through bone-dry plains to reach the wounded before the sundown’s chill takes hold. The Centaur tribes spoke of balance between earth and spirit, and the Cleric’s Cabalist legs were a tangible pledge of that balance: sturdy enough to anchor a rite, nimble enough to shift into a gallop if a skirmish broke out. They carry stories of long nights spent in a caravan’s shadow, of chanted invocations that stitched warmth back into frost-bitten ankles, and of healers who learned to pace their breath with the tick of brass plates. It’s not just armor; it’s a portable chapel, a reminder that every step can be a vow fulfilled. In practical terms, the legs are carved for endurance and blessing alike. Worn by those who tend the wounded in the field, they offer a sturdy defense against the world’s roughness while amplifying a healer’s touch. Equip them, and a steady pulse of restorative magic seems to gather at the wearer's knees, then flow outward through the legs and into allies nearby. They don’t turn the tides by themselves, but they smooth the ocean—allowing a cleric to stand firm during a stampede of projectiles, to pace a group through exhaustion, to keep a line from breaking when fear rises in the standard-bearer's entourage. In the right hands, they become a quiet rallying cry rather than another piece of jewelry. The market tell is as old as the road: a price whispered over coin and rumor, a trade that favorably considers both the sash of history and the weight of use. It’s not uncommon to hear a price flirt with the upper end of gold, especially for pristine specimens that have never known a tumble or a careless step. And for those who crave a more practical edge, a dealer at Saddlebag Exchange might offer a bargain in exchange for a handful of rare venoms, a set of pristine apothecary vials, or a ledger full of protected recipes. There, the legs pass from hand to hand as if passing a legacy—the kind that makes a battlefield feel a touch less brutal and a march a touch more sacred. In any case, the Centaur’s heartbeat remains encoded in the brass and leather, guiding the wearer toward paths where healing and courage walk together.