Errol's Pauldrons

Errol's Pauldrons are a weathered pair of shoulder plates, the kind that feels heavier in the hand than on the body. The metal wears a deep, honeyed bronze patina, ridged with tiny nicks from long campaigns and salt-stung winds. A compass rose is etched in the left pauldron, its lines running like a map scratched by wind across a storm-tossed sea, while the right shoulder bears a stag’s silhouette leaping through a ring of starry points. The edges are softly beveled, catching lamplight in a way that makes the whole piece glow with a quiet, stubborn resolve. Leather strappingraw and soot-darkened circles the plates, and the rivets—dark iron, almost black—pin them to a traveler’s harness that has seen better days and better roads. When you lift them, you can feel the weight of a thousand road-swept mornings, the kind that sharpen focus and steady the hand. Lore threads through that texture like thread through cloth. Stories say Errol, a cartographer whose maps were as hard-won as any blade, wore these pauldrons as he crossed coastlines and caravan roads. They were never meant to be mere protection; they were a symbol of bearing witness—to the dangers etched into every shoreline, to the betrayals of weather and distance, to the moment when a compass needle finally finds true north. Some say the engravings aren’t just decoration but a blessing—a reminder to keep one’s bearings when the world shifts and the map seems to redraw itself. In tavern laughter, a crusty old trader will swear that the patina shifts with the moon, that the shoulder plates remember the tides and respond to a wearer’s resolve. Whether myth or memory, the pauldrons carry a traveler’s creed: endure, observe, tell the story. In practical terms, Errol's Pauldrons have long been prized not just for their story but for their usefulness on the road. They blend with sturdy, heavy armor builds that favor endurance over flash, shrugging off the kind of blows that sting the shoulder and slow a march. They pair well with a commander’s bearing, turning a frontline presence into a moving narrative—the wearer becomes the map, and every skirmish writes a new leg of the route. The engravings aren’t mere vanity; they serve as a focal point, a reminder to read the battlefield as a chart and to translate chaos into direction. Worn with a weathered cloak, they announce a veteran who knows the weight of the road and the value of a well-kept map. Market stories thread through the sale as well. In the bustling stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, the pauldrons draw more than a price tag; they draw curiosity. A storyteller might barter a tale for the piece, a scholar might trade meticulous notes, and a warrior could offer a sliver of their own road-worn experience in exchange for the right fit. Depending on the seller’s memory of Errol and the current mood of the exchange, the price might ride with the season—sometimes a practical sum, sometimes a premium paid for the collector’s heartbeat behind the item. Regardless, the pauldrons travel on, from market to muster, bound to carry someone forward into the next page of the road Errol once mapped. If you find them, you’re not just acquiring armor; you’re adopting a weathered chronicle, a compass you can wear, and a reminder that every journey leaves a mark—some on the land, some on the shoulder, and some in the soft, steady breath of a road well-traveled.