Carrion Banded Greaves of the Flock

Carrion Banded Greaves of the Flock glimmer with a dull, weathered patina, like a moonlit bone glinting through a snag of leather. The plates are pitted and scarred, a mosaic of ash-gray steel and bone-white crescents that trace the shank with a quiet, almost ceremonial rhythm. Leather straps, weather-streaked and stubborn, wrap tight as a sailor’s knot, reinforced by iron bands that click softly when the wearer moves—a sound that carries across markets and campfires alike. On the front, a feathered motif is engraved deep into the steel, the lines curling like a flock in flight, then hardened with a grime that hints at long nights spent stalking the margins of plague-bloom swamps. The texture is a contrast of harsh edge and quiet resilience: coarse, waxed leather that grips the leg, and smoother bone inlays that catch the light with a begrudging sheen. They feel ancient and well-used, as if they’ve traveled with a dozen explorers who never quite escaped the scent of rain on decay. It’s easy to imagine the Flock, a caravan of scavengers and keepers of hard-won lore, passing through a ruined market while the greaves were being blessed with a whispered prayer—perhaps to keep a rider upright when the earth itself seems to tilt beneath the stride. There’s a rumor threaded through campfire tales that these greaves were forged not solely for protection but for story-telling in motion. The Flock’s sigils are said to bend the wearer’s path through danger with a certain pragmatic grace: they enhance steadiness in chaotic ground, help the wearer cling to a wounded ally, and lend a feral efficiency to movement that feels almost predatory. In the right hands, they become more than armor; they become a quiet vow to endure rough miles, to outpace rot and ruin, to keep up with a trek that never truly ends. The lore suggests the greaves were sewn into the ritual of a caravan that would rather barter than beg, a line of travelers who treated every scuff as a memory and every notch in the leather as a tally of survived storms. When you strap them on, you aren’t just donning protection—you’re donning a history of footfalls that have carried people across landscapes that remember every mistake and miracle alike. In gameplay, they’re framed as a practical choice for those who crave mobility without surrendering grit. They’re favored by builds that move with purpose through contested ground, and by those who value the telltale resilience a steady stride brings to skirmishes among ruined towers and echoing plazas. The greaves invite you to pace through danger with your squad, to weave between foes, to keep your posture while the world buckles under pressure. They’re less about flashy bursts and more about the patient arithmetic of survival—the kind that turns a tense moment on a siege battleground into a story you’ll tell again and again. In the market, the Saddlebag Exchange is where such traits find a price that feels fair: not sky-high, but earned, a reflection of their worn dignity. The chatter around the stall stalls that a pair in decent condition might fetch a modest sum—silver and copper weighed together with the weight of a dozen miles traveled. It’s enough to make a buyer pause, to consider the greaves’ promise and their price, to imagine the next leg of a journey where the Flock’s memory travels on the wearer’s shins. And so the greaves pass from hand to hand, a shared relic of a world that rarely forgives but often remembers.