Rabid Draconic Coat

Rabid Draconic Coat spreads across the peg, a quilt of burnt red leather and jagged dragon-scale plates that gleam like embers caught in a forge. The texture is odd and alive: the scales catch the light with a metallic roughness, while the leather beneath bears the patina of long travels, smelling faintly of smoke and resin. The coat’s hem flickers with a red thread along the seams, and a high collar tucks into the neck with a wary, almost pugnacious tilt. If you press your palm to the lining, you’ll feel a warmth that isn’t entirely from the fires around you—a whispered memory of a dragon’s fever, a memory carried in the weave. Folk-spirited tailors claim the Rabid Draconic coat is more than fabric: a witness to a pact between hunter and beast, melted into hide when a siege forced a dragon’s temper into the street. On the body, it drapes with a confident ease, the plates resting as a crest across the shoulders and the leather allowing the limbs to move freely for quick turns, draws, and evasions. It’s not mere theater; this coat is a sign that the wearer has walked through ash and rumor and lived to tell the tale. In gameplay terms, it’s a cosmetic skin for medium armor, a banner you raise in crowded markets and quiet crossroads alike—capable of transforming a practical outfit into something that looks as if it could roar or flee at a moment’s notice. Pair it with rough-spun leggings or sleek carapace bracers, and you aren’t just wearing protection—you’re wearing a story. In the wider world, skins like this circulate between raiders who’ve earned a burnished memory and traders who trade with the memory’s weight. They carry lore of draconic fever and the people who dared to clan with it, and they invite a new narrator to step into the tale whenever the hood is drawn up and the collar tightened. The coat’s glow is a reminder that even in peace-time cities, there are embers still hot under the surface, ready to spark into a legend. Of course the market is part of the story. The Saddlebag Exchange is where such a coat moves through hands as if it were a living creature with a price on its breath. There, its value drifts with the season and the rumor mill: a core of gold, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on who has the eyes to see the dragon’s memory in the weave. A buyer and a seller meet, a quiet negotiation unfolds, and the coat passes, not just as a piece of attire but as a rumor made wearable. As you pull it on, you become part of that rumor—the Rabid Draconic Coat, a fragment of a dragon’s fever, now a mantle for a traveler who refuses to forget the flame. Some nights, the coat seems to hum with quiet heat when you walk through a market lane or cross a river of lanterns, as if the dragon never truly left your shoulder. In that sense, the Rabid Draconic Coat isn’t just clothing; it’s a map of memory, inviting you to carry what you’ve faced and what you still hope to become, stitched into every step you take.