Berserker's Rawhide Shoulders

Berserker's Rawhide Shoulders catch the light with a rasp of weathered hide and a gleam of iron, the leather cracked along the edges like old parchment and the metal fittings catching fireflies at dusk. The pauldrons curve over the shoulders with a hunter’s sinew, rawhide lacing tracing a stubborn X across the plates, and a faded sigil stamped into a brass plate at the collarbone seam. The surface wears the dust of a hundred campfires and the scent of tar and pine resin clings to the edges, as if the armor remembers every skirmish it survived. It isn't merely armor; it is a piece of a wandering war story, a rogue’s diary stitched into hide and steel, left behind in a market stall to tell whoever will listen about the berserker who wore it and the rifts he walked through. In the hands of a sword-wielding frontliner, these shoulders sing with practical virtue: the rawhide gives a whispering resilience to blows, while the metal plates catch glints of enemy steel and keep the wearer upright during a charge. The set is meant for those who crave reach and rage, for fighters who test their limits against brutes and banners, and it shows in how it holds its shape after a day of travel. The stitching is tight enough to resist tears, the buckles are polished from years of use, and the seams hold a little dirt and triumph in equal measure. Put on, and the sense of momentum returns—the world sharpens at your periphery, and a rhythm builds in your steps, as if the earth itself drums you forward. Pricing in the market has its own kind of poetry. A leather-stitched piece like this travels in the wind between traders, bartered like a memory and weighed with the breath of stories rather than raw numbers. I heard the tale whispered from a linen-draped stall, where a merchant named Mira told me that the Saddlebag Exchange had priced favored pieces at a fair mark—enough to tempt a traveler, not enough to break a courier’s back. The true cost, she said, is less about coin than about the journeys it enables: the shoulder plates that carry you through a night raid, the conversations they interrupt, the battles they weather. A buyer steps in, tries it on, and suddenly the markets feel less like commerce and more like a lending library for worn heroes. As nights grow long in the border camps, the Berserker's Rawhide Shoulders keep their promise: they support courage, they endure, and they remind the wearer that every scar has a second story. When a fighter slips them on, the world seems to tilt back into balance, at least for a few heartbeats, and you feel the old hunger—to charge, to trade, to survive—reawakened beneath the leather and steel. So I walked away with the shoulders neatly packed, tasting the mix of sweat and pine resin. The market breathed on, and somewhere a drum sounded—an invitation to the next journey.