Dire Banded Greaves of the Citadel

Dire Banded Greaves of the Citadel rest heavy on the table, their plates hammered iron-dark, lacquered with a deep crimson band running along the shin and knee. The edges are beveled, catching light with a quiet menace, as if they could slice silence itself. Raised embossing traces sigils of a long-forgotten order—stag, key, and rune—woven into the metal so they remain legible even after centuries of rain and march. The knee joints are wrapped in a joint guard whose leather is tanned to a warm bronze, stitched with an almost ceremonial care. A grit of dust clings to the crevices, a reminder that these greaves have walked through sieges and snows alike, that they have tasted ash and triumph. Legends say they were forged beneath the Citadel's forge fires, tempered by oath-breakers who found their resolve stronger than the iron they'd hammered. When a wearer moves in them, you hear a slow, measured creak and feel the weight settle, as if the armor itself is listening to the march of a heart. In the field, this is not mere decoration; it is a promise. The Dire Banded Greaves provide steadiness to the stride, protection to the shins and calves, and a certain stubborn resilience—enough to outlast a skirmish and a chase through alleys slick with rain. Players note how the steel plates shift the balance of a sprint, how the crimson bands seem to glow with a faint inner heat when you draw a breath under pressure. The Citadel's fame lies in discipline, and these greaves carry that memory: a guarantee that you can weather the rain of arrows, the bite of frost, the sting of a spear, and rise still with your shield forward. They pair with a helm of watchful eyes and gauntlets that never quite forget a flag you once carried. Market gossip is never far away. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, a merchant traced the greaves with a gloved finger, weighing both memory and metal as if they were a single thing. Price fluctuates with tales—new conquests, forgotten vaults, or a rumor of a fresh shipment from a distant outpost can nudge the numbers upward or pull them down again. The trader spoke in quiet, practical terms, noting that the value of the Citadel’s loot tends to ride on how much legend the buyer desires to carry. For some, it is a symbol of discipline; for others, a sturdy tool in a long road. I walked away with a map of futures and a sense that these greaves would outlive any one campaign, a rustless token of loyalty and craft. The Citadel endures, and so does the weight you choose to bear when you lace these bands tight around your legs. Even in the quiet after a clash, the greaves seem to hum with a distant chorus of watchmen, a reminder that armor is not just metal but memory, and that the Citadel survives because its stories endure as surely as steel for all.