Dire Aureate Targe of Air

The Dire Aureate Targe of Air gleams on the counter, a round sentinel cast from sun-forged aureate brass. Its surface is a map of wind-streaks caught in gold, the diameter generous and the rim edged with dark obsidian steel that swallows light. Runes arc along the edge like cicadas in a summer storm, while at the center a sigil of a curling gust pulses with pale light when you tilt the shield, as if the air itself is listening. A patina of rain and sun coats the face—cool to the touch yet warm in the palm—evidence of storm and street endured. Its weight sits balanced, never clumsy, inviting the bearer to grip and go. Lorekeepers speak of wind-smiths who carved it in a sun-scorched city, binding it to a lord of air who rode the first tempest across a sea of sails; the shield's purpose was to shelter a commander who could hear the air's commands. When the storm passed, the targe stayed, listening for the next gust's summons. In battle it becomes a confidant rather than a weapon. It blocks with quiet dignity, and the moment the edge meets rush or magic, the aura around the rim glows faint gold and steadies the air around the bearer, easing the nerves of nearby allies. The targe shines brightest in wind-swirled skirmishes when wind-based skills braid into strategy: a turn of the shield can redirect a spell, grant a breath of calm to a fallen comrade, or open a window for quick repositioning. Those who ride the tempest learn to time its moment, to listen to the sigil's whisper and answer with measured resolve. It rewards patience and careful defense, turning a guard into guidance as currents bend toward will. Market days tell the rest of the tale. In Saddlebag Exchange the negotiations hum; coins clink in gloved hands as the ledger ticks. A well-kept Dire Aureate Targe of Air typically trades around one and a half gold, somewhat more if the patina gleams and the sigil pulses, less if the etchwork wears thin. Traders speak of rumors and winds as if they were stock tips, and the price shifts with mood and memory. I watched a caravan master bargain over it, counting on the promise that in a gale the targe would do more than shield; it would guide his crew through the storm. The same stall is where rumors travel as fast as coin, and the item moves—from market to battlefield, from vendor to veteran storyteller—carrying a weathered whisper that chooses its bearer as surely as the wind chooses its path. Ultimately the Dire Aureate Targe of Air is not merely metal and myth but a companion for the journey, a memory woven into armor. It invites the wearer to listen, to look up at the sky and see a path formed by air and fate, and to step forward with the wind at their back.