Berserker's Sneakthief Shoulderguards of Grenth

The Berserker's Sneakthief Shoulderguards of Grenth gleam under a streetlamp, two broad plates of dark metal etched with bone-white sigils that coil like whispered sins along their rims. The texture is a paradox of rigidity and clothes-soft warmth, cool to the touch yet somehow alive in the light—as if the metal remembers every time it was worn into a shadowed hallway or a crowded market square. The leather underneath, worn smooth by weather and travel, cushions the joints with a stubborn, almost stubbornly human patina. A central medallion, a tiny skull carved in relief, anchors the left pauldron, while runes spiral along the edges, catching the torch’s flame and turning it into a private, tremulous glow. It feels deliberate, like something forged to be worn by someone who would rather slip through a door than break it down. Lore threads tighten around the piece as you run your fingers over the engravings. These shoulders are said to be a gift from a splintered order that worshiped Grenth, the god of death, not as fear but as a passage—a quiet doorway between life’s loudness and its darkest quiet. The “Sneakthief” name hints at a lineage of rogues who preferred cleverness to brute force, while the “Berserker” tag whispers of a ferocity that flares when the moment demands it. Put together, the shoulderguards become a paradox made metal: a talisman that asks its wearer to strike swiftly and disappear with equal grace, to carve a path through vigil and vault alike without ever shouting their presence. In the wider world, the piece is less a set of numbers and more a story you can wear. It is said to grant the wearer a rare kinship with those fleeting, catlike seconds before a plan becomes action, allowing a breath of confidence to stabilize a risky maneuver, a momentary edge to reach through guard lines or a necromancer’s trap. The balance it promises—between the Berserker’s heavy, earth-shaking assault and the Sneakthief’s ink-black stealth—has made it a favored companion for scouts, skirmishers, and the occasional reckless tracker who believes the best defense is a well-timed flash of ambition. In the heat of a desperate charge, or when a map’s corners hide more than they reveal, the Shoulderguards feel less armor and more oath, a whispered vow to meet death on one’s own terms and leave a mark on the moment. Prices travel with rumor as much as with steel, and that is where Saddlebag Exchange enters the current of the story. A winding market stall that skirts from town to town, it trades in relics and rumors with a smile that knows too much. Here, a merchant’s ledger might say the price shifts with the wind—a pulse tied to who last wore them and which tomb they’ve slipped past. A buyer’s hand may tremble, or a seller’s voice may soften, and the trade will hinge on a single, decisive nod, the knowledge that these shoulders were built to carry both burden and bravado. So they pass, these shoulders, from one shadow to the next, and in doing so they keep telling a living history: a city’s appetite for risk, a thief’s reverence for the landing as smooth as a whispered name, and Grenth’s quiet reminder that some power lies not in the scream, but in the sound of a step fading into the dark.