Giver's Noble Shoulders

Giver's Noble Shoulders glint under a late afternoon lamplight, two plates of burnished steel capped with a gloss that recalls lacquered wood. The edges are trimmed in brass, delicate filigree twisting like ivy around the rivets, with a small sunburst badge nestled near the cap that catches the eye as you tilt your head. The surface is cool to the touch, a map of micro-scratches and patina built up from long hours of travel; not a single dent spoils the line, because whoever wore them last walked with purpose and guarded pride. In the lore of the city, these shoulders were never to vanish; they were bestowed upon the Givers—those in the council of benefactors who funded the city’s most daring rebuild after the old plague and its stubborn ember of despair. It’s said the plates bore witness to the conversations that stitched neighborhoods together, that the hammered bronze echoed with promises spoken in candlelight. When you cradle them in your hands, you can almost hear the murmured oaths that bound generosity to duty. But the story isn’t merely souvenir-steeped romance. In play, the Giver's Noble Shoulders carry weight beyond their grace. They are a statement piece that partners with every gait, turning heavy footfalls into a march with subtle authority. Worn by those who stride into contested zones, they offer a balance of protection and mobility, the plates designed to shift with your moves rather than resist them. The shoulders act like a reminder that every act of defense, every stand against the odds, is a story you carry forward. For the healer who needs line of sight to life-saving sunderings, for the frontline guardian who keeps allies safe behind a shield of steel and resolve, the color and gloss become as practical as they are ceremonial: the brass glints signal your presence, the dark steel absorbs the worst of the impact, and the inner lining—softened leather, stitched with oil—keeps your shoulders from growing weary after a long dusk of patrols. In the market, its life continues outside your inventory. Traders drift to the Saddlebag Exchange with glances that measure a shoulder’s worth against the breath of a city’s memory. A pristine set can fetch a respectable sum, traded for gold and sometimes a trade of rare materials that whisper of far-off voyages. People talk in clipped phrases around the booths: “It’s not the metal, it’s the story,” someone murmurs, and another nods, counting coins in a palm. The piece becomes a conduit—between donor and defender, between a distant vow and your present danger, between the old hall and your next step into the fray. When you finally shoulder these plates, you don’t just wear history—you’re invited to become it, to press forward with the memory of those who gave before you guiding your every stride. Some nights you hear the brass sing when you pass a torch-lit doorway, and you know the city is listening. In that sense, the should- ers aren’t just armor but a living contract, binding the giver’s legacy to the path you walk.