Shaman's Cabalist Shoulders of the Afflicted

Shaman's Cabalist Shoulders of the Afflicted sit heavy, warming the wearer with a dull thud as you shoulder the weight of history. The leather is rough, patched, and scarred by exposure to rain and ash, stitched with sinew cords that crack like old cordwood under winter. Over the pauldrons a row of bone toggles rattles softly; riveted brass plates catch the light with a green patina, and the edges are jagged from the old rituals. A strip of faded cloth cushions the collar, while a single totem bead dangles at the seam, catching the light like a deliberate spark. The piece feels worn by time and the stories that travel with it, stories of scorched fields and huddled healers who whispered to the spirits to spare the last child. Locals tell me the Shaman's Cabalist Shoulders were forged in the days when the Afflicted pressed their trembling hands on the world, and their pain found a vessel in ritual ink and bone. The lore says the cabalists bound fear and ash into a protective shield, so that a weary friend could stand a little longer in the smoke. Gameplaywise the shoulders carry a quiet promise of support: when the wearer calls on the memory of the Afflicted, the energy of the tribe pulses through the set of sigils, weaving into healing prayers and warding auras that help allies endure. It is not simply armor; it is a quiet chorus on the battlefield, a reminder that relief can arrive even as night falls. Raiders and rangers speak in the same breath of danger when this piece is worn, for it is heavy with ritual purpose and the feel of the earth beneath your boots. While its appearance anchors the story, its function stays in the hands of the living. In the wild engagements of exploration or siege, a shamanic ally might lean on its protective warding to shrink the sting of blight or to ease a stalled retreat. People who trade with this piece narrate a larger arc: the Afflicted are not merely victims but custodians of worn wisdom, and the cabalists who stitched them back into the cycle carried a share of that burden forward. On a sunlit dawn I wandered into an alley market, where a weathered trader offered the shoulders with a careful tilt. Our conversation drifted from rune to rune, until he mentioned that such pieces now travel between hands as casually as a map. It was then I checked the Saddlebag Exchange ledger on a nearby screen: a fluctuating line showing demand against season and legend. Prices shift there as villagers and wayfarers pass through; a brisk voice trade can fetch a night of rest and a hot meal, while a heavier sum buys a longer journey. The stall keeper smiled and whispered that old shoulders find new feet at the Exchange. Sometimes a buyer matches a tale of healing with a handful of coins, and the item becomes more than loot—it's a hinge in the world.