Cleric's Banded Greaves of Lyssa

Cleric's Banded Greaves of Lyssa catch the eye with sun-worn brass plates riveted to deep blue leather, each band etched with sigils that flare like a whispered incantation. The metal wears a patina of long journeys, and the leather bears the soft, pebbled texture of vows kept clean by candle smoke. Along the knee, a slender crescent crest in mother-of-pearl catches the torchlight, and the sigils along the edges seem to shift when viewed from the corner of the eye, as if illusion itself were woven into the stitching. The greaves carry a scent of ink and rain, a reminder of the Moon-Touched smiths who tempered magic with metal and prayer. In your hand they feel cool, almost careful, as if they were listening to your heartbeat before a patient step into danger. They are more than armor; they are a pledge to walk with quiet certainty through whispered lies and sudden peril. In the world’s street-level stories, these greaves are spoken of as a bridge between healing and deception. Clerics who serve Lyssa—the goddess of illusion and cunning—often seek them for the way their bands channel tempo and focus, letting hands move with fewer missteps when the battlefield becomes a mosaic of blurred silhouettes. Wear them, and your stride seems to skirt the edge of a mirage, letting you slip between threats or slip right into the right position for a healing word at just the moment the line breaks. They lend themselves to builds that weave magic into movement, that turn a hurried retreat into a well-timed counterstroke, that trust the mind to see through the fog even when the eyes tell a different story. Of course, every good piece has a life in the market as well as the chapel. Traders whisper about demand, about how a pair of Lyssa-greaves can turn a cautious novice into a deft negotiator of space and time on the field. I watched a dealer in the Saddlebag Exchange lay the greaves on a padded cloth, letting the light trace the sigils until the edges gleamed with a cold promise. The price crept up in the counting of coins, nudged by patrons who spoke of distant temples and the storms of fear that bloom when illusions falter. Yet the seller’s smile never left his face—because in this market, the value isn’t only in the metal or the leather, but in the trust that the sigils carry. A buyer acquired them not merely for protection but for the quiet voice of Lyssa along the spine, urging measured steps when chaos rains down. If you listen closely, you can hear the greaves answering with a soft rasp as you walk: not just armor, but a little theatre of calm in the middle of a storm, a reminder that true strength can be as much about a steady breath and a well-timed illusion as it is about heavy steel.