Soldier's Spineguard

Soldier's Spineguard sits on the workbench, a curved slab of tempered steel lacquered in midnight black. Its surface is smooth where it isn't scored by time, yet a faint grain maps every strike it has endured, like rings on a battle-worn tree. A pronounced spine runs down the center—a ridge of articulated plates that catch the lamp with a quiet, deliberate gleam and shiver at the smallest touch. Leather straps, once stout, are frayed at the edges; they creep with dust and oil, giving off that old-war smell that clings to metal and hide. The crest is etched with runes that coil along the ridge in a pattern that hints at discipline, oath, and a unit's stubborn memory. Hold it up to the light and you can almost hear the distant clank of armor and the murmur of orders, as if the spineguard ever so slightly remembers the commands that forged it. It waits, patient as a guard, for the day it will be drawn again. Legends bind it to a siege that kept a fortress standing long after others fell. Some say it was hammered by Ironhand smiths from the spine bones of a fallen veteran—though that's more myth than metal. What is certain is its design: a compact shield for the wearer's back, a guard against spear thrusts and blade slips, something that makes even a determined advance feel a shade surer. In terms of gameplay, it is a frontline piece—heavy, steady, and unflashy—perfect for tanks and bruisers who want to soak up punishment while teammates carve out space. It doesn't grant flashy bursts, but it lends resilience: more stable footing, better posture during a swing, and a sense that the wearer is anchored, not blown off course by the next volley. In cooperative events, a veteran who dons it can shepherd squishier allies through the first rain of blows, letting the healer focus on mending the line rather than chasing a toppled front. Markets remember war as much as warriors do, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the spineguard first goes to meet coin. On busy days a vendor will set a rough price in silver, sometimes asking a little more if the leather remains supple or a sigil still gleams with a stubborn glow; on quieter days the same piece slides toward a few coins less, a negotiation shaped by weather, demand, and reputation. I’ve watched one buyer press a knuckle to the crest, test the rivets, listen for a soft ring when the plate taps a finger—then walk away with a deal that feels balancing and just. For crafters, the spineguard is a source of the materials that help shape new armor and relics, but for those who chase memory as much as metal, it is a banner in a quiet war—proof that even a single piece of gear can carry a story heavy enough to slow the pace of a march and remind a village that their defenders endured, and remember. In the end, the spineguard is more than metal; it's a quiet oath carried on the back.