Berserker's Banded Greaves of the Lich

Berserker's Banded Greaves of the Lich glisten with a lacquered crimson that catches torchlight and spits it back in sparks. Iron bands kiss thick, weathered leather, wrapping the shins with a stubborn, almost ravenous grip. Each band is hammer-marked and slightly pitted from long marches, a texture that feels like hardened memory under the fingertips. The shin bears pale blue sigils—necrotic runes traced as breath and bone rather than ink—glowing faintly when the wearer pushes toward the edge of control. A bronze buckle, carved like a coffin lid, rests at the back, and it sighs a little when you flex, as if something in the boot remembers a war long past. These greaves aren’t mere armor; they are a hinge in a larger chronicle, the kind of relic a caravan trades between sieges and markets. They were forged for a berserker who pledged himself to a lich not as a servant but as a partner in a brutal dance: rage meeting restraint, thunder meeting shadow. In battle, the Lich’s wardens whispered that momentum could be coaxed from fear, that a footfall could tilt the world and turn the tide. Legends say the pact saved him from a traitor’s blade and left him with a gait that would not tire, a stare that would not blink, until the final page was written in blood and gold. In play, the greaves lend a gravity to the berserker’s path. They smooth the line between savage rush and deliberate strike, letting a practiced wearer chain movement, leap, and follow-through with a steadier breath. They invite a rhythm: strike, recover, press, hold. The design feels practical at the moment of true burst, yet poetic in the moment of waiting, when the sigils glow and the room seems to shrink to the space between footfalls. Market mornings at Saddlebag Exchange bring the rumor and the weight together. Traders lean on carved stalls, telling stories that braid with the price of ancient craft. A well-preserved pair can command a respectable sum, especially if the Lich sigils glow consistently or the buckle remains true after years on dusty roads. The price isn’t fixed; it shifts with demand, lore, and the willingness to part with a memory. In that bustle, you hear a common thread: these greaves aren’t simply equipment; they are a living history you can wear, a bridge from legend to the next step in the world’s long story. When you stride away, the market’s murmur follows, and the Lich’s sigils warm to your pace, as if the long history of the berserker will finally find a new ending in your stride. The story isn’t finished, either; as new campaigns push beyond the old ruined towers, another wearer will carry the sigils forward, learning that the Lich’s power is not merely in the magic but in the choice to stand when others retreat. The greaves, worn by a cautious conqueror or a reckless enthusiast, keep teaching: power grows where history is worn like a second skin. That is the lure.