Carrion Cabalist Shoulders rest on the table like two carved fossils, bone-white shields bulging with sinewy relief and bound to weathered leather by stubborn, nurse-maid-thin straps. The surface is cool to the touch, a tactile map of time—polished bone catching specks of light, then dull again where it has learned the weight of a dozen campaigns. Centered on each pauldron is a gnarled sigil, a crescent of ash-gray bone etched with careful spirals, as if some long-forgotten rite had pressed its memory into the armor itself. A narrow strip of dark cloth, frayed at the edges, threads through an iron buckle shaped like a hooded skull, giving the shoulders a silhouette that seems to lean forward, listening for whispers in the wind. The texture shifts from slick bone to the soft kiss of leather, a contrast that makes the piece feel almost alive—like it breathes with the wearer’s pace, a companion that both corroborates and counterpoints every step. Lore threads through the design as if the shoulders themselves were a page in a ledger of eldritch debts. They’re said to be forged for a cadre known simply as the Carrion Cabal, necromancers who measure power in the reverberations between life and decay. The sigils are not mere decoration; they are a memory of rites that call forth shades, harvest vitality, and bind the carrion-blooded into a pact with the wearer’s ambitions. Some tell of the bones as having traveled through rot and rebirth, as if the armor silences the fear of decay by turning it into a practiced, practiced strength. In this way, the Shoulders become more than armor; they become an emblem of a path walked by those who trust in the quiet alliance between corpse and courage, a statement that beauty can be tempered by grim purpose. In the heat of battle, the Carrion Cabalist Shoulders feel less like armor and more like a partner in a grim conservatory of power. They are prized by players who lean into necromancer aesthetics and minion-centric builds, weaving in with outfits that glow with dusk and bone. The piece doesn’t just sit on the body; it influences the cadence of a fight—the way a cast lands with a touch more gravitas, the way a minion’s shadow seems to linger a heartbeat longer when the sigils catch the light. It’s the sort of item that invites conversations about strategy and style in equal measure: you gain an air of inevitability, as if the dead have aligned behind you, and your builds feel thematically tighter, as if your deck of tricks has grown a notch darker. Market whispers soften into trade when one strolls through town with a tail of caravans and a ledger to keep. Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling open-air stall of relics and relic-hunters, becomes the chorus line for prices that shift with expeditions and rumor. One day the shoulders might command a high tint of gold, the next a smaller sum if a fresher relic has rolled into the market’s eye. It’s the kind of fluctuation that makes collectors grin—the thrill of chasing a perfect specimen, paired with the thrill of wearing it. In the end, the Carrion Cabalist Shoulders aren’t merely a piece of gear; they’re a story tucked into leather and bone, a reminder that power in this world often comes dressed in the elegance of decay.