Zealot's Draconic Legs

Zealot's Draconic Legs gleam with dragon-scale plates, lacquered in a deep ruby and onyx sheen, the joints braided with weathered leather and brass filigree, and a narrow sigil etched along the shin. The texture is cool and slightly rough, like scales that remember every step the wearer has taken, and the edges catch light in a way that makes even a quiet march feel ceremonial. The lore that cling to them says the zealots who forged such pieces believed dragon memory could ride in the metal, guiding a true believer’s stride as if the beast itself walked beside you. In a ruined outpost along the scorched pass, I found a pair propped against a slate pedestal, the sigil glowing faintly when moonlight found the cracked glyphs. The leather straps were stiff with age, the plates showing micro-scratches from a lifetime of dust and rescue missions. It was said in hushed tones that these legs were worn by an adherent who rode the slow path of patience, trading swiftness for endurance, letting flame and frost bite the air while he kept his oath. Put on the legs, and your silhouette becomes something between a hunter and a relic; you walk with the weight of history, the dragon that never truly slept. Footing into a skirmish, the Zealot's Draconic Legs feel like a vow you can wear. They bolster resilience, and when paired with other draconic gear offer a discreet set bonus that favors steady harrying over careless sprinting. You don’t sprint past danger so much as step through it with a dragon-smooth tread, gaining steadier footing on slick stones and a little extra resolve when the wind bites. In groups, they signal a role—frontline shield, notched by the rhythm of armor clips and pulse of the drums—without shouting a single word. They’re also a favorite for collectors and role-players, a tangible link to the world’s old codes, the imagined oath of those who believed that legends could be worn as armor. Prices drift in the market like a tethered banner, and seasoned traders know the right hour to speak. It’s not a simple buy in a single coin, but a negotiation of tales and trust. At Saddlebag Exchange, a stall tucked beneath a canvas awning, the keeper will lay out a ledger where the price glints with potential—sometimes a handful of silver, often a gold or two more on a busy market day, depending on the buyer’s tale and the seller’s memory of the zealots. You might trade a piece of history, a crafted sigil, or a promise to guard a caravan route, all to claim the legs for your own silhouette and your own story. Put to use, they anchor a journey as much as they equip the body, letting you travel farther while feeling the world remember its own myths. And when the night returns to the ruins and the stars trace a dragon’s arc above the walls, you can swear you hear a distant oath: keep moving, keep learning, dragon memory walking with you.