Cleric's Banded Greaves of the Pack

Cleric's Banded Greaves of the Pack rest against the plank on display, their segmented leather dark as rain-soaked bark, stitched with iron bands that catch the lamplight and hold a gentle brass patina. The shin-high greaves curve with the wearer's stride, and the surface bears years of travel—scuffs from cobbles, scrawled notes from caravan scouts, tiny scratches where a buckle snagged on a weathered post. A subtle sigil is etched along the outer band, the mark of a long-forgotten order that kept faith with the wounded and the weary. When I tilt them to the side, the soft click of metal on leather speaks of hours spent knee-deep in mud and wind, of prayers whispered to steady a caravan through a desert dusk or a city street shadowed by ruin. They look almost ceremonial, yet they bear the weight of practical resilience, as if they’ve learned to walk for two. Lore says these greaves were once the favored gear of the Clerics who traveled with packs of healers, the kind who slept with one ear to the ground and one hand on a patient’s pulse. The “Pack” wasn’t a metaphor so much as a living thing—a network of medics, guides, and guardians who moved as one tide across sieges and markets, stitching together hope with every step. The greaves were less a badge of rank than a pact: carry the burden, share the load, heal first, flee only when you must. The sigil glints brighter when a healer draws near, as if the metal itself remembers the warmth of a hand laid on a fevered ankle and the soft breath of a lullaby spoken to a frightened child in the night. In the ring of quiet city markets and sun-baked trading posts, their value isn’t merely in the leather or the legend. They’re a statement of endurance—how far you’ll walk for someone else, how fast you’ll move when the caravan needs to pull back from a cliff edge or a collapse of mortar. In practice, they feel like an ally that never tires, granting a cadence to a squad’s march and a steadier hand to the healer who must bend toward a patient without losing sight of the road ahead. You notice it not in loud numbers, but in the softened recoil of a boot meeting the earth after a long chase, the regained breath of a group that has learned to lean on one another. Saddlebag Exchange, that under-tented corner of late-market chatter, has kept careful track of the greaves’ worth. A well-worn pair will fetch careful coin, and yesterday a seasoned trader priced a nearly pristine set at about three gold and twenty-five silver, the sort of offer that makes a caravan’s head sway with a mix of longing and pragmatism. Others, more cheerful with barter, trade spices for thread or a map for a buckle, testing the balance of needs against the weight of what is remembered. The cleric’s greaves are more than gear; they’re a thread in the tapestry of movement—one that keeps a story alive as surely as any sermon spoken at dawn. And so the pack moves on, step by patient step, carried by leather, lore, and the promise that someone is always watching the road ahead.